


The Time that is Given to Us

by Count_Saruman



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Faithful to most canon, Gandalf the Corrupted, Inveterate British altiloquence at times, Majestic Dwarves, Melian Returns, Saruman gets the Ring, Saruman the Tyrannous, Sauron helps (in lieu of a lack of choice), War on a grand scale, Wrought in the rather idiosyncratic mind of a Tolkien sycophant whose livelihood is overanalysis, good Thranduil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23093452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Count_Saruman/pseuds/Count_Saruman
Summary: In a world where Saruman claims the Ring to anoint himself Lord of Middle-earth, and Gandalf is forced unto his service for fear of none else standing to temper the new Dark Lord's wrath against the Free Peoples, the Grey Wizard sees one last hope in an old friend- one who must be given a little nudge out of her door.One may also find a queer rallying-call in the comfort that a certain Lord of the Rings has the sense to place his talents at the service of the enemy of his enemy.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis, Elu Thingol | Elwë Singollo/Melian, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	1. The Coming of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Saruman claims the Ring and Gandalf sets into motion a desperate plan

**One- The Third Dark Lord**

_Perfection._

It was what he craved above all else, and if he had to condescend to see personally to the ruin of all in his way to achieve it, he would without a second thought.

Such a lofty aim for such a lofty figure- not anymore. The little golden ring set on the top of his greatstaff's gem of Valarin diamond assured him of that.

For the first time, and not the last, he opened his mouth and let fly a truly _evil_ cackle of Dark Triumph. The black syllables struck his ears and satisfied them greatly- gloating of the basest kind though it was, no ill is to be found in obliging one's ego from time to time, is there?

He acknowledged that he possessed an ego- one not inconsiderable- and he revelled in how he would endeavour to accomplish all it brought to his fancy. 

He reflected on how he had had to suppress his instinct to accomplish such a feat- if he had but committed a small oversight, it would all have been for naught.

It happened after he brought his former 'friend' (pathetic grey dullard of an old fool) for a little talk at Isengard by a subtle manipulation of Radagast (whose wit, or lack thereof, would never cease to serve him well).

The deluded, blind old lunatic (such a failure in Saruman's case for having overestimated his wisdom) had then seen fit to demonstrate his complete and utter lack of _vision._ Two choices he had been offered- two _wise_ choices- and he declined.

To paraphrase him, Gandalf was the one who had abandoned reason for madness. He was, therefore, offered a third choice- to remain incarcerated, until he finally spoke of the ring, or until it was found in his despite. The ruler would then have time to turn to lighter matters- such as a fitting reward for the hindrance and insolence of Gandalf the Grey.

" _That may not prove to be one of the lighter matters."_ said he, and Saruman was tempted to laugh. He thought the words empty at first- so too did Gandalf, apparently. However, Saruman was a master of guile- and he recognised deception when he saw it. Perhaps Gandalf's resigned expression was not deceptive- but it was taken as one.

A thorough search was conducted of his raiment and his mind by Saruman himself. He brought the palantír, and turned its farseeing gaze directly at his form, which strained them both- _and the palant_ _í_ _r never lied._

Through the glass, he saw what was hidden- what was invisible. The Ring Narya, bringer of flames- _ON THE HAND OF THAT CONTEMPTIBLE FOOL! That was Saruman's ring! Saruman's! Cursed elves, they would pay, and dearly so._

Wrath, however, he had convinced himself, would not aid him- shadowed machinations would. He, therefore, slid the Narya onto Gandalf's finger, after restraining him, and then upon exploitation of the inanimate object's link to the wizard (which he could do because of his own affinity with flame), he conducted an utterly vicious and ruthless search of the inner thoughts and hideen knowledge of his former friend's mind. Piece by piece, he tore deeper, and nearly tore the Grey Istar apart - and in the deepest corner of his fëa, he found the knowledge of the Ruling Ring.

Gandalf had collapsed after the search- he had to be given credit for not immediately disincarnating after being subjected to the most terrible torture that could be done to his kind- and was left reeling on the floor. Saruman had plans for him- plans within plans. Soon, he would be turned from lunacy to usefulness…

After that, it was a simple matter of donning the fool's grey robes- drab, _meaningless_ colour- and riding to the Shire. It at once reminded Saruman of how he would like the entirety of the world to be- peaceful and tranquil, accepting its life as a gift, while he ruled over a realm of such simplistic order with an iron fist.

It was simple enough to reach Bag End and mimic his friend's voice for long enough to whisk the ring-bearing hobbit away on a cart- and a well-placed strike to the temple took care of him ere he could notice any difference in character from his friend.

When he was outside the Shire, he conducted a similarly thorough search of the hobbit- this time, the ring Narya came in handy in detecting the One, which hung from a chain on his neck. It was, then, a brisk matter to take him to Isengard personally, without wearing the ring- for he had information that there were _other_ hunters in pursuit.

The ring was taken, and placed atop his staff, and he spent all his hours studying it henceforth. The hobbit he kept alive and _unspoilt-_ the surprising resilience of the creature to such a powerful pull was indeed worthy of… _scientific…_ examination.

He himself could only stave off the pull of wearing it with his hours of study- and a little 'lighter' matter that took unexpected precedence.

It occurred to him that he would not be able to fend off the Nine for long- his ensorcelled wards would hold for a time against their weakened might- but as soon as Sauron's attention came to him, his full wrath would be directed at Isengard. Saruman, therefore, needed a weapon, and such a weapon was being… _created… now._

'Heh, heh, heh, haeh, hah, hah, haaaahh…" he cackled again, as he could not deny that he was enjoying himself. Such a pity that a maia so reputedly wise needed to be brought so low- but so very worth it.

The Ring's corruption was a tool he could employ without mastering it- and it was being used to great effect.

Chained and gagged lay Gandalf, Narya on his finger, to heighten his connection to the One. Saruman was slowly, brutally clawing his mind to pieces, intent on breaking his will.

Clearly, physical pain was of the essence. He mused, then, on how best to hurt his former friend- _fire?_ Gandalf had a greater affinity for that than him. Wind and Water were out of the question. _Frost?_ A viable option, but he thought the maia of Manwë would possess a high resistance to it.

 _Lightning, then._ It was risky to charge the sub-atomic particles _inside_ his tower, but he had the One Ring. He had also succeeded in unlocking a bit of his own maiarin might, which had been bound by the Valar before his coming unto Middle-earth.

He spread the tips of his fingers in a claw, and directed a terrible blast directly at Gandalf's heart. The maia shouted in pain- for the first time- and keeled over. He was not allowed the bliss that came with unconsciousness, however, as Saruman struck the iron pillar to which he was chained, and the sparks violently jolted him awake.

" _Why… are you doing this, Curu..mo?"_

"You now pay the rightful price for your absolute lack of wisdom. I am only doing what is necessary, _Gandalf the Grey_."

" _You have turned from the l-light of the Valar. Y-you are crafting, as if a fey smith of fates, your own doom."_

"Valar? _Valar?!_ At times, _old friend,_ I wonder why they were quite so short-sighted- particularly my former 'master'- and yours. But worry not, _friend-_ I shall free you from their shackles as I have broken mine."

" _You will never see victory, S-Saruman."_

" _We shall see- in time, you will cease to call Manw_ _ë_ _'Master'."_

And with that, he left the wizard to mull his choices over, returning to his studies of the ring.

* * *

**Two- Sauron's Wrath**

_Sauron's wrath was unleashed._

Herumor, the Dark Marshal of Sauron, had been waiting three hundred and three thousand years to witness such an event.

Orc after orc, troll after troll, Easterling after easterling had assembled to his lord's command, and with a single thought of Sauron's dark will, had made with all haste for Isengard.

The Orcs of the Misty Mountains had been personally touched and shadowed by Sauron's will, their chieftains falling prey to its black touch, all being commanded to surge forth to the tower of Orthanc. The halls of Angmar were, after a thousand years, rendered open, and the harsh men of the north, along with the few Black Núménoreans who still abode in the chill wastes, had all marched forth to pay Sauron's new rival fell greeting and destruction.

The Ar-Adûnaîm of Umbar had set sail with their great boats, landing at unoccupied Tharbad and making way to the Nan Curunír. The Haradrim, with their caravans and their long boats of the sea had even inexplicably managed to ferry a few soldiers to Saruman's hold.

Rhûn was the only vassal-nation left to defend Sauron's lands to the east.

To some, it was seen as a vile outpouring of the forces of darkness- to Herumor, it was glory incarnate.

Legion upon Legion was advancing at his lord's command.

He had little time to ponder about Sauron having sensed that Saruman, of all people, was in possession of his treasure- his fëa- and of how Saruman had gotten a-hold of it in the first place.

He had scarce little time for such trivialities, as he was being ordered to march up Barad-dûr's stairs to Saurons throne room, where his lord awaited him.

As for Sauron, the Dark Lord was… _troubled._ He was consumed by wrath, by rage, by shadows- _he must get what was his own back-_ but Saruman's sudden capture of the Ring had freed him from the grasp of constant thought about his treasure.

Mairon was the admirable smith no more. He was pained. He had suffered pain greater than any other being in Eä had ever had to endure- and he had learned to fight it.

Every moment of his existence was a burning hell- the shadows of the world, his closest friends, were also his greatest foes, for every instant they strove to tear him apart. In his tower he was confined- doomed not to walk the world outside.

What few knew was that Sauron _loved_ Middle-earth. He had always done- and forever would until the ending doom of the Dagorath. He hated Valinor and the other continents- but Middle-earth was his very life.

Arda was a manifestation of chaos, and he hated chaos- _but he still loved her and for her sake, had descended from the timeless halls._

A cruel, mirthless laugh came from his lip, reflecting on where that had gotten him.

This past age, he had bent the entirety of his will towards the hunt for his ring. The shadows of darkness had consumed him completely- and overcome by rage, he had become as a shadow of malice, a threat and a demon to all.

Being deprived of it, however- now that another had claimed it- he was filled with a lucidity that he had not experienced for the entire age.

It was what made Sauron terribly dangerous- if any dared to claim his ring, he would know, and having his mind returned to the realms of conscious thought, he would connive to destroy them in one fell stroke.

The Ring's tendencies of betrayal, however, had been silenced by _evil. Pure, terrible evil._ And he had never expected the former wizard to be the source of it. Saruman the 'White' radiated such overwhelming _doomdarknessevil_ that it inspired dread in even his dark mind.

He knew not just how his former colleague under Aulë had become quite so… insidious.

As the Black Núménorean marched to his throne and knelt before him, Sauron saw fit to rise, the black robes and cloak encompassing his form. A four-fingered black hand made a sweeping gesture, and Herumor nodded his head before rising, seeing his lord descend the black steps.

"My lord Thû. If I may be permitted…"

" **Cease your superfluous words and hark close. Herumor- yea, that would be you… I do indeed remember…"** spoke Sauron with a menacing, dark tone that belied his intent.

Herumor did not move, his eyes on his lord's feet. Yet no fear did grip him- for the Black Núménorean was the most loyal of the Dark Lord's servants aside from the Nine, and Sauron knew it.

" **By now, you must have surmised that it is… a rather… delicate matter for which I have summoned you. I remember you, as you were, in N** **ú** **m** **é** **nor- and since the day of your realisation that the path to victory lay at my side, you have never once wavered."**

Herumor remained static. Sauron never praised anyone, save perhaps his war-beasts. The Núménorean, were he not a three and a half thousand years old, would have felt proud. Instead, he felt a twinge in the bonds of Sauron's dark sorcery that held his fëa to his body.

He had kept himself remarkably well- he was not a husk at all. He resembled what any veteran among nobility would. He had, of course, remained unwavering.

Memories were brought to him, of how he publicly denounced Sauron (then Tar-Mairon) in Núménor, of his arrogance and vainglory in those days- and of how Sauron had taught him a lesson, and stripped him of all he cared about- a tragedy brought about by Fuinur, his own brother. It was then that he realised that his place was at Sauron's side- along with Fuinur had already taken it- and had never shaken in his beliefs. Attachments were inconsequential. They only existed to be exploited. Sauron taught him to never have any, and to exploit such attachments for his own cause.

Sauron knew, however, that Herumor was a man of honour. He was a deceptive manipulator, but never sought to destroy the honour of an adversary and always kept his own when challenged to a duel. Besides, he did care about his own allies and strove to keep them alive as best as he could.

It was these traits that would be vital in allowing Sauron to complete the first part of his plan.

Swallowing a great deal, of personal pride, Sauron let fly all his secrets at his bewildered servant.

" **Herumor, speak naught of this- think not of this- but I** _ **fear**_ **. I fear that I might have caused my own doom. Saruman- his terror knows no bounds. He has already managed to employ my ring against me. I fear that he may gain an extremely dangerous ally soon. Should he break the bonds of loyalty I placed upon my creation, he will turn first to me.**

**The Nazg** **û** **l- they answer to the master of the ring, not me- that leaves you, for you are the only one who answers to me and to me alone."**

"M-my lord, command me. I draw breath only to do your bidding." said a stunned Herumor, fighting to regain composure.

" **I know the mind of Saruman- but it has grown so dark that even I cannot see its full depths. It is with surety, however, that I can state that his first act would be against me. Saruman is vainglorious. He would claim the mantle of Dark Lord for himself, and suffer no challenger. The first battle would be here, at Barad-d** **û** **r- should he gain victory at Isengard. In Mordor, I have no chance of escape. There are too many shadows- little manifestations of Morgoth's power who answer only to the Dark Lord- and they will obey Saruman. He will aim to crush me.**

**Should he prevail against my full might, your orders are these- make no move against the Free Peoples. Gather up whatever resistance you may. Rely not on the orcs- not a single orc or goblin is to be in your army. Summon up whatever resistance you can from the peoples of Harad and Rh** **û** **n, and from the Black N** **ú** **m** **é** **norean descendants who answer to you.**

**It is my command that you hold here- that you fight a losing battle. Middle-earth is the land I love, Herumor- and Saruman will seek to bend her to his will. I cannot have that. I strove to enslave the peoples so that Arda could be free- but I see truth now.**

**For Saruman to be defeated, I must be alive. Mand** **ë** **will tell, then, if I am to claim the ring at the end of it. For now, however…"**

And with that, Sauron lifted his hood off, showing Herumor a face torn by war, scarred by Elendil and utterly broken by the sorrow of a thousand torments upon his beloved Middle-earth. The Núménorean could see that it was not a lie- the dark maia truly was sincere in his care for the land. That did indeed solve a great many questions.

"My lord, it will be an honour- my highest honour- to die in your name. For your victory, I am prepared to give anything. There is one thing I ask, however…"

Sauron looked at him. Herumor's words were not sycophancy, nor did they betray a slavish devotion. He spoke as a man of honour.

" **Pray tell, if I may grant it."**

"Please, my lord, look beyond your differences. For your sake. This is the end of the road for me- let it not be so for you. Look beyond the lies and deceptions, my lord, and only then will you find the key to the end of Saruman."

Sauron stumbled, absolutely taken by surprise. He had not expected these words to be spoken- but it was _advice._ As if given to a friend, a person one wished to keep alive. There were very few- nay, none- who would wish to keep him alive. He found the words ludicrous, but he found himself touched. He would never, however, mention it.

" **It will be taken into consideration. For now, however, there is another small… errand…"**

"My liege?"

Sauron drew breath, and he pulled his hood over his visage.

" **I mean to leave alone, as it is the only way I will not be betrayed. I will need… to defend myself. Open the dark treasury, and go forth to M** **û** **rburz, the hall of secret darkness. Bring me the weapon."**

" _The_ weapon?"

" **Aye** **, the weapon."**

Herumor left with a new sense of hope. It seemed odd- yet poetic, in a way. The _**black sword**_ had never been wielded despite its terrifying enchantment. It would finally have a hand to guide it in battle- and how fitting that it would be this one.

* * *

**Three- A Cunning Plan**

_Mellyrn._

_A beautiful talan._

_Nightingales._

_Heavenly song._

_Nightingales._

_A resplendent queen, singing to a little child._

_A Nightingale, singing for the vigorous coming of spring after the cold winter._

" **Agh!"**

Gandalf rose from the floor, reeling. Saruman had left him.

Five days he had tortured him, and Gandalf remembered little of it. He suspected that his will was breaking- and his memory was failing alongside it.

He remembered the essentials- how Manwë had sent him to Middle-earth- _and how it had ruined him-_ Nay!

He attempted to focus on another one- of how he had asked Frodo to keep _it_ secret- _and how the incompetent fool had not-_ By Valinor, nay!

Gandalf thought awhile. What memories he had appeared to have been… _corrupted. Tampered with._

He drew breath, and for the first time, he let loose his voice in hatred, uttering a dark curse unto Saruman. _So that is what his fate would be. That would be Saruman's design for him._

He doubted his will would hold out much longer. If he were to be unleashed upon Middle-earth by Saruman, as the Dark Lord's deadliest servant- he could only wish someone would stand up to him, set aside old ties and stop him. It was a truly evil plan, bitter in its irony.

_How fortunate that he had just come up with one to best it._

He surmised that the dream he had was a gift- one from Lórien, perhaps- or from Ilúvatar himself- for that formed the crux of his new plan.

_Nightingale._

He only hoped she would hearken to his call. The Istari were sent to Middle-earth to complete the same duty Melian had been doing flawlessly for years, against much greater darkness.

 _She was perfect. She truly understood Middle-earth, more so than any other_ _in Aman_.

The wizards' maiarin power had been curtailed, for fear that they could damage the land further if they were to exercise them in battle against Sauron. There would be no risk of it with Melian- her power involved healing. She loved Middle-earth- she would not destroy it, and could only enrich it.

To keep Saruman in check, power would not be the correct choice- wits and compassion against vainglory and manipulation was needed. She was Saruman's antithesis.

A pity that he could not call to her in any way as she was in Valinor- but he knew of one who could.

In only one figure did Gandalf see hope for Midle-earth- and it was not in Aragorn or Faramir. Not in Dáin or any of Durin's folk. Not even in Elrond or in Galadriel- for Gandalf's sole hope lay with Thranduil.

_A Nightingale, singing for the vigorous coming of spring after the cold winter._

Gandalf himself did not have any sort of bond with Melian- they merely knew each other well. Thranduil had shared a bond with her. She had cared for him when he was but a child. Surely he was the only one she would listen to.

Thus resolved, Gandalf put forth all the remnant of his strength into his will, and his mind called loudly:

" _ **Tharan ethuil, lasto! Lasto, Thranduil!"**_

* * *

**Four- Spring Calls, and the Nightingale Answers**

Thranduil stood silent, his arms rested on the wooden railing of the balcony. This was one of the higher places in his palace- the rest was entirely underground.

Ivy lazily wound its way around the hewn wood, little flowers growing here and there. His realm was visible below. It was neither as majestic as Imladris- nor as impossibly beautiful as Caras Galadhon- but in his mind, it was the fairest of all realms. It was _home._

The trees here had come to know and love him and his people. He recalled the many conversations he would have with the trees in his youth- through long training and listening, he could hear their voices answer his calls. Few elves, nowadays, cared to listen patiently and carefully enough- they were missing something quite wondrous.

He had little time to talk to them now, for his mind was caught in a last dilemma.

He had sent Legolas to Rivendell, on Elrond's summons- and _this_ had happened.

It was only the previous day that he had heard Gandalf's voice, which woke him from his well-earned rest. The wizard had told him some truly terrifying news- and had assured him that it would be the last time he would ever be able to consciously speak with any friend he had.

On Thranduil's questioning, the wizard had cryptically revealed that ' _The flame of Anor will soon desert me, the flame of Ud_ _ûn_ _taking its place_ ' from which the Elvenking instantly deduced that Saruman was attempting to turn him to darkness. If the new Dark Lord had the one ring, then Gandalf could not hope to resist.

" _Call to her, O Tharan Ethuil. She will answer. You know of whom I speak- she is the only hope. We Istari have failed in our task- only she is fit to accomplish it."_

" _Lady Melian?"_ he had responded, recalling instantly the beloved queen, and how much of a mother she had been to him when his own mother was elsewhere needed.

He did not wish to do this. She ought to rest in Valinor. She had earned it well. She did not deserve another terrible undertaking of toil.

" _Forgive me, Gandalf, but I cannot - I will not do this. I cannot call one I care for to partake in such a cruel fate. Can you not see that she is weary? That she is tired and wishes to remain in peace?"_

" _And yet can she live in peace, knowing that she will have doomed us? She knows, Thranduil. She knows the danger we are in, and she knows that she is needed. She merely requires a bit of convincing- as I would say, a little nudge out of her door. I know of none but you who may be capable of such a feat."_

" _I-I refuse to doom her as we have been!"_

" _Do I not also have the trust you place in Elrond, your friend of elder days? Am I not also one in your counsel? For I ask you to trust me now, Thranduil. Melian lives with the burden of guilt every day- this is a way for her to release it. It will be good for her, Thranduil- I suspect she will see it as another chance to do what she was meant to. To render dark things right."_

The normally stoic Elvenking gulped. In his eye, Gandalf was a far more skilled manipulator than Sauron or Saruman could ever be, and he knew it. He knew that Melian would rush to their aid if Thranduil but nudged her. The burden of the decision was placed on him- how fitting, how cruelly fitting.

_An image came unbidden into his mind, of a small elfling. A little elfling who had grown up and been sent to Rivendell- one who was walking into danger without knowing it._

Sighing, he made his decision, and knew that should it come to an ill end, he would never forgive himself.

" _Excellent,"_ Gandalf had said.

" _There are but two more instructions I must give you, dear Elvenking. If you do call to Melian, ask her to speak with Lord N_ _á_ _mo. She bears a grudge against him- tell her that it is of the essence to resolve it._

 _And finally…"_ here the wizard's voice cracked, despite it being a psychic manifestation in ósanwë-

" _Thranduil, I wish you- nay, need you to bring an end. To me."_

" _Gandalf, what in Arda's name…"_

" _Should you face me in battle, should I come to oppose you any time in the furture, promise me that you will bring an end to me. Promise me that you will… resolve to kill me. Whether it be honourable or not, please… should I oppose you in battle, end me."_

" _GANDALF, HOW CAN YOU EXPECT ME TO…"_

" _Aragorn will never slay me- he is too attached to my old self. Legolas will not. Elrond and Galadriel cannot, as they must not risk using their rings. Melian- she would never kill one she cares about, even if it would be a better fate. That leaves only you. Promise me, Thranduil. Do it so that my f_ _ë_ _a may leave and so that I can return to my rightful home."_

Thranduil sighed. A tear ran down his eye, and he could have done nothing to stop it. He surmised that Gandalf was in the same predicament.

The world rested on his shoulder.

After a moment, he furiously wiped the tear away, and said, with a voice of cold steel: "To you I make this vow, and may I be damned should it be broken."

" _I c-cannot express my gratitude. T-thank you. Farewell, Vigorous Spring."_ and with that, it was ended.

-

-

Thranduil had been entrusted to tell a maia to resolve a grudge with a Vala and then leave her life of peace on Valinor. To add to that, he had to kill one of the brightest beacons of hope for the Free Peoples.

_Why did everything have to happen to him?!_

Yet he remained calm, as only he could and returned to his dilemma.

_Should he send for Legolas or should he not?_

After a few minutes of calm, logical analysis, it was decided that he should not. It would be too dangerous for Legolas, and could potentially expose his realm to the agents of Saruman.

He just did not want to fight a war, remaining in uncertainty of his son's safety. He needed to make absolutely sure that he could protect his beloved Legolas- for Legolas was all he had left. He had none else. His father, mother, wife- _all gone. All taken by the darkness._

He told himself to put more trust in Elrond, his friend of old- then he smiled. That he could do, and with ease. Trusting Elrond was one of the decisions he had made in the past that he did not regret. After Doriath's end, all he had wanted was revenge against the Noldor. It was Elrond who had taught him to forgive, and to truly live again.

He could perhaps trust him with keeping his son safe, now that he thought of it.

Thoughts cleared, he turned to his aide, Sadron.

"Sadron, mellon-nin. I order you to stay at my side, and under all circumstances, to stay calm. I need your strength- and I wish you to remain at my beck and call, to fetch a chair, if needed. 

" _H_ _í_ _r nin?"_ asked the puzzled elf. Thranduil was as unwavering as the mounatins, and had never before needed anything of the sort.

Thranduil smiled. "I shall now perform rather a risky and dangerous feat of ósanwë. Should I stumble needlessly, I will arrange for you to be forcefully made to drink Dorwinion's wine and laid out unconscious for all the court to see. Am I clear?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt, my lord!" said he hastily.

"Faithful as always."

Having thus pronounced, Thranduil shut his eyes and immersed himself in thought. He recalled his memories of Doriath0 painful though they were- and yet there were good ones. Memories he smiled at.

_And then, he found her._

Thrusting forth the entirety of his will, his mind spanned the leagues between Eryn Lasgalen and Valinor, and there he found her.

"Melian. Rise now, dear Queen of the Nightingales. Rise, for Ennor has need of you."

In Lórien, in the sanctity of Irmo's garden, Melian awoke.

_The Nightingale answered the vigorous call of spring._

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

_It is my intent here to, at the end of each chapter, leave a large glossary of terms explaining elements, incidents and characters from 'The Silmarillion' and 'The Lord of the Rings' books that some would perhaps not be familiar with._

**Sindarin** **and** **Quenya** **are the two major elvish languages, the former employed by the Sindar (Grey Elves- for example, Celeborn and Thranduil) and the Noldor (Deep Elves- for example, Elrond and Galadriel)**

**Valar** The Valar are Tolkien's demiurges, although higher in authority and power than the term allows. There are seven kings of the Valar, and seven queens. The fifteenth, **Morgoth** , the mightiest in the beginning, turned to evil and became the first Dark Lord of Arda. Sauron was his foremost lieutenant.

Out of all the Valar, Varda is the most beloved of the elves.

Serving the Valar are the **Maiar** , of the same order but of lesser might. Each Vala has many maiar serving them. Gandalf and Sauron are examples of Maiar.

 **Nan Curun** **í** **r- (Sindarin) **Wizard's Vale

 **Curumo- (Sindarin)** Man of Skill, Saruman's original name

 **Arda -**Tolkien's world. Middle-earth is a continent on Arda.

 **Valinor -**The Land of the Valar

 **L** **ó** **rien \- **Realm of the Vala of Dreams, Irmo. Ocated in Valinor. Do not confuse with Lothlórien.

 **N** **á** **mo/Mandos:** Vala of Doom. 'Doomsman' (Judge) among the Valar. Said to be the grimmest among them, he has rather a large and controversial part in the Silmarillion.

 **Manw** **ë-** Lord of the Valar, High King of all Arda.

 **Mandë: (Quenya)**Doom

 **Herumor -(Quenya) **Black Lord. He became a great lord of Harad in the Second Age, along with Fuinur. Kept alive by sorcery. One of the chief servants of Sauron

 **Ar-Ad** **û** **na** **î** **m \- (Ad** **û** **naic)** Corsairs of Umbar

 **Melian \- **Maia who founded the Kingdom of Doriath with Thingol in the first age. She is referred to, at multiple points, as 'The Nightingale'. 

' **Thranduil'** comes from **'Tharan Ethuil'** meaning Vigorous Spring

 **Lasto- (Sindarin ) **Hark/Listen

 **Sadron- **Faithful one

 **Ósanwë (Quenya): **The method of telepathic communication employed by powerful elves wherein their minds and 'fëar' (souls) are extended to meet with another's.

 **Olórin:** Gandalf's original name as a Maia.


	2. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an Age of Peace ends and the Cold Night begins its advent

" _I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.  
"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."_

― **J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring**

* * *

**Chapter 1: The End**

_Silence._

It reigned, sovereign and inmmutable, did silence, on the silver-grey shores of the havens of Mithlond.

The elves who yet remained, they had sung by their fires, raising melodic voices in sorrowful harmony- lips forming words of music composed purely of the design to draw forth tears from the eye of the most unknowing of listeners- and yet they had, perhaps by the need for rest or by the force of their own lament, been compelled to cease.

Blanketed by Night they stood, under the light of their beloved stars of Elbereth- for to only one was known the symbolism and the true meaning of the moment, the meaning that it was at the point in time of the completion of a circular cycle at which they now stood.

Círdan the Shipwright, the ancient Elven Mariner of great legend and myth, knew alone of the circular nature of the path the Eldar had been doomed to take- circuitous though it had been for most by choice- for he was but the only among them to have awoken under the very same _elenath,_ under the caress of the same blanket of night at Cuiviénen nearly eleven thousand years in the shadowed past.

And so did the Shipwright allow the silence its reign unchallenged, for he would not this day utter his hymn to the Elentári.

This curious deviation from what he had turned akin to a duty found its root in a suspicion the ancient mariner carried and worried- not a suspicion, nay- nigh a feeling. _A prickling on the nape._

For one who had, by virtue of his actions in the First Age, saved perhaps the entirety of Elvendom upon Middle-earth, the world was wont to feel heavy upon his shoulder, and he in his infinite years was wont to shoulder the world's weight all the more firmly- and yet he found aught to be in contrast with the weight of doom he would bear on every other day.

A feeling of unrest had coiled itself as would a snake around his heart, and in his dreams of late, he would fear the night as no elf did; for it would turn to him with tendrils of shadow with which to choke and extinguish.

' _This night… shall an end come to it? Or will it on evermore, denying Anar's light its purpose?'_ he found himself mutter, and perplexed, he silenced himself, 'inspired', as it could be called, unto a reverie of deep thought. For yet again there struck this _feeling,_ this _palpable_ suspicion that the days ahead would lose their light and Long Night would come.

The Shipwright had always claimed to a certain latent foresight- perhaps it was why he could incontestably claim to be an excellent judge of character. Yet it was to his hope that the nightmares that plagued him of late would remain only that- phantoms of shadow- and it was not his innate foresight that told him of the 'dark days' to come. He hoped, at any rate, that he was wrong, and that they would not.

Doom would speak against his hope, and Doom never heralded any lie.

* * *

"My lord Elrond, a fervour of unrest seems to have gripped Master Baggins. He would have words with you, if you please- or if you do not; for it was conveyed to me that he would remain adamant in his stance notwithstanding your disposition."

The words were the vessels of a silent yet unwavering voice- a tone of clinical practicality that would ever bring to the fore the current state of the matter. There was an air of _coolness_ to it that would imply the speaker had said his part and would say no more; that what he had said was final and would stand, and he would not pry further into the matter but see it done nonetheless. It was, then, that Elrond of Rivendell associated the voice immediately with Erestor, his trusted scholar, librarian and friend of elder days.

He would have risen quickly at that- only that he did not. With deliberation, he pressed his palms against the oaken desk at which he had seated himself with manuscript after manuscript of ancient tale and deep lore, and rose slowly, majestically, rousing himself eventually to a brisk gait.

Bilbo Baggins was admirable company, and yet had never _asked_ to see him in especial before. The twin threads of suspicion and malaise, however, had entwined themselves first in Elrond's mind when it had received the mental missive from Thranduil of Mirkwood in that fateful afternoon.

Thranduil, he knew, was not given to the use of ósanwë- an unwillingness common among the Sindar- and he had yet chosen to warn Elrond immediately of one thing: to take from his finger Vilya, the ring of air, and set it aside in a place secret and safe.

A grave tale matter he warned of, one that he could apparently not be told of in light of 'those who would listen'. The full tale, the Elvenking assured him, would come from the mouth of Legolas his son, who resided as Elrond's guest currently, the following day and not before. As a father, he had said, he could not rob his son of a last night's sleep ere such opportunities of rest were… _lost,_ apparently.

Such thought would prowl in his mind as he would nigh-subconsciously navigate the endless corridors and passages of the Last Homely House, the destination _known_ to his fëa, taking turns and stairs with a certain ease of clairvoyance. It was, then, that Elrond had found his way to the Old Hobbit's door before long, before indeed he thought he would, for he had lost the thread of time.

Clearly, such thoughts of the future could not be entertained now, could they? Master Baggins had asked to see him, and he was nothing if not a kind host. Banishing the thoughts from his mind, therefore, he strode within with the same grace and elegance that accompanied his every step.

'Ah, Lord Elrond! Welcome, welcome! Tea? I thought you would enjoy a cup- only my humble brew, mind you, yet I cannot claim to be a gentlehobbit if I do not have the audacity to offer, can I?"

For now Elrond did indeed see a yet untouched, hot cup of tea on the table at Bilbo's bedside, next to one from which the hobbit had taken the liberty of a single sip.

What struck him as odd was that the Hobbit was propped up on pillows, choosing to cover himself nearly to the shoulders in the warm, comfortable blanket he had been offered. He must have called in someone to aid him with the tea, for he clearly could not have made it himself, if one observed his condition.

How odd that a few days ago, Bilbo had appeared perfectly hale- and even if age had caught up to him, he would not consign himself to his bed thus. His face was ever uplifted in silent joy or luminous memory- and his wrinkles did not appear nearly as numerous or his forehead as drooping.

_It was then that his foresight struck, and he reeled._

_Bilbo's ring._

_The Ring._

_The shadowed night would come, stifling the stars themselves._

_There would be no escape- not for what elves remained, not for the men._

… _Treachery._

* * *

"L-Lord Elrond! I trust that all goes as it ought? Would… is it that there be anything of which I must know?"

_What choice was afforded to him? There was none but the path of the deceiver._

And so Elrond told the old hobbit perhaps one of the greatest lies that ever would leave his maw, and after its passing he hated himself with all his mind for committing such a treachery to one he considered a good friend.

"Nay, 'tis naught, Master Bilbo- naught that must concern you."

The regal elegance had returned to once again grace his voice, though not his step, for the observant eye of Bilbo noticed a wary caution as the Peredhel sat and accepted his cup of tea.

"If you really are _quite_ sure…" began the Hobbit slowly, and here Elrond would nod his head, "There is… a matter… of which I thought you would wish to be informed."

"Pray tell, then, old friend, and in the realm of possibility, I shall see what I must and can do."

A slight nod to the Hobbit, who seemed at once both relieved and oddly warier. The Halfelven could not quite perceive his thoughts, for they were rather jumbled and _twisting…_ and some were admirably hidden. After a rather long silence, the Hobbit would speak.

"The… the matter concerns Frodo, my dear, good lad. I… grow worried for him, unable as I am to send a letter as he is expected to be on his way. Perhaps I worry as any good father must when his… _son…_ takes upon himself a perilous journey, for that is what he is to me and what I hope I have been to him- but I have this… uneasy… feeling that I cannot quite put. A fear of _betrayal,_ if you understand me, from one within. I do not fear the East or the abilities of Sauron of Mordor, but… in my dreams, there is yet another. Another, faceless and crowned with shadow and lightning, who would see to our end."

"I see." said Elrond. The Hobbit would have to be told, sooner or later, the full tale, but Elrond knew that the fellowship he had been seeking to form- nine walkers to oppose nine riders- would now be superfluous.

The son of Eärendil had always possessed an ability to _feel_ the dooms of others and the doom of the world itself, and when he had summoned envoys of all the free peoples to Imladris, he had felt a certain _symmetrical geometry._

That geometry was broken, he could now clearly feel, and he would only know in what way once Thranduil would deign to tell him the following day.

Seeing, then, that the Elf-lord would say no more, Bilbo continued.

"I… I fear as well for your council, and for the… ah, fellowship you spoke of your intent to form. I worry for my Shire- never has it faced threat; never since Mount Gram and the Green fields- for dear Master Hamfast and that fine son of his… Such niceties may, it seems, be… taken from the world."

"Of that we can do little but hope, Master Bilbo. Little but hope."

Bilbo Baggins, however, had a reputation for shrewdness. He would get an answer from even the inimitable Elrond, if he set his mind to it, and therefore adopted a more unusual line of questioning.

"Tell me, then, of my friend the Dúnadân. What became of him? The last I heard, he persisted in the Prancing Pony at Bree- charming place, that- has he departed old Butterbur's company? Have you heard from him?"

The once-burglar's keen eyes were quick to notice the slight, inconspicuous fidget that Elrond's hands gave as they held his cup.

"Nay, I have not heard from him since. I have… not."

_Ai Estel, wherefore must you find yourself of late? In what peril endangered, by what shadows caught?_

To Elrond, Aragorn was as good as a son, and he thought of him often, although he never did show it. His face, therefore, resumed the same steeled expression it ever wore in such times.

"Well, my dear friend, as there is clearly little I can do for you save waste your time…" and here Elrond turned to leave, before a faint 'Wait!' was heard from the hobbit, at which he turned around. In truth, Elrond had been expecting such a response, and knew of the question that would come from it, and he had already prepared the answer.

" _Any… any chance I might see that old ring of mine again?"_

"One never knows, Bilbo… we shall see."

* * *

"It will be alright, Mr. Frodo- no matter what we find ourselves in, by my old Gaffer it will be alright in the end."

One among numerous sighs escaped yet again from the Hobbit, lying dejected and despondent in the cell.

From the tiny window they were afforded, high enough that they could strain upon the tips of their toes to reach it, the hobbits had the choice to behold a terrible scene.

Time and again, Samwise would peer, see the dark clouds that shadowed the night yet further, observing faintly the dark armies of Sauron beyond.

Frodo Baggins, however, was well-aware that the window existed for the purpose of torture than to afford them any sight, and he would not, therefore, deign to look from it.

The only company that had been forced upon them was that of a mangy orc who would deliver their sad excuses for meals- for the wizard had not yet come for them, nor sent any torturer, for he had naught to gain from their suffering apart from perhaps a certain personal satisfaction.

The absence of company, welcomed though it was, never ceased to remind either hobbit of their time in the Shire, and of how rudely it was cut short.

Frodo was half-sure that even if Saruman deigned to send forth a servant whose way was with the whip, for physical pain would pass nigh-unnoticed in the face of this curious _void_ that seemed to devour his very soul.

He had explained, softly and silently, how Gandalf would not be coming to save them to Sam, and yet the other refused to believe it. He knew he ought to be thankful that his companion yet shared hope, and yet part of him wished that the poor fool would _understand,_ for goodness' sake, that there was to be no respite for them.

For only now did he see hope for what it was- it was yet another form of torture, a truly terrible form, chiefest among the perils Saruman could inflict upon him.

' _There is but one lord of the rings, and he does not share power'_ he had heard Gandalf utter ere he was taken away, and Saruman had laughed then- answering with lofty voice and fey manner-

"Aye, _Olórin…_ aye indeed. For it is he that stands before you."

Frodo knew well the origin of the _emptiness_ that had set awash his heart- for he could not bear to be apart from the ring. It was said that one knew only of the value of something when it was taken by another, beyond one's reach- and it was precious, he found, so very _precious._

It was not that his mind did not entertain the prospect of Saruman employing the powers of his voice and his mind to further his feelings of loss and regret- cruel devilry it was indeed, and he knew it- but he cared not. There remained naught that would be served should he care for it.

"Oh, Sam…" he found himself whispering, unable, _unwilling_ to tell his gardener and best friend of the terror of the time, and he there he sat, limbs as set in stone.

The night came, and the long hours passed, but he could not sleep- and yet the armies of Sauron were drawing closer, closer by the second; until at the crack of dawn, his ears were roused by the clearest and most resonant of voices raised in chant.

" _Nai herucormo taltuvë,_

_nai morgûl quelmë fanyarë,_

_Ai nárraumo nancarindo_

_nahta-cotto nu fuinë!"_

A deathly screech followed, and dark clouds blanketed the sky- for the night had come again.

The Hobbit could do little but slip yet further against the wall, awaiting in futility the sweet release of sleep- blissful sleep that he knew would not come for him.

* * *

"Lord Steward, the forces of Mordor pay us no heed! They march ever on, for west is their way, and Osgiliath, blessed be the stars, is left empty!"

The young herald, nigh-choking upon his breath in the fury of his haste, found but a sliver of time to right the sigil of the White Tree that adorned his chest ere he fell to a bow in front of Lord Denethor.

Such was the position of the steward that it was not of the essence for captains of the army to prostrate themselves before one, yet Gondor had for years seen no king, and it had become customary to defer to the ruling lord thus- and Denethor was nothing if not an advocate of maintaining tradition.

A slight twitch could be, perhaps, observed by the sharpest of observers in Denethor's black eye, for that accompanied the natural desire of the 'steward' that the captain should kneel, not merely bow.

The thought was, however, dismissed in favour of the news he was given, and no thought had passed in his mind ere he rose at once and roared the four words:

"Retake it at once!"

Morthondion, for that was the young herald's name, cursed himself silently for his neglect in the anticipation of such a proclamation and his lack of preparation at how best to respond. An uncomfortable fidget, noticed at once by the keen eye of Gondor's lord; and he chose to respond quietly:

"The… generals would say that is not wise, my lord. It is seldom that the Dark Lord's forces neglect and opportunity of offense against our lines- for surely there must be some treachery, must there not? Some deception, some thievery- some plan they would follow?"

"You would grant to _orcs_ and mindless servants of evil the consideration that they may hold an intricate strategy of war? The Dark Will behind them is ever bent upon the ring, and the ring it is that they pursue. The ring is west, and I gather it has been found- it should be _here,_ curse the gods. It should be here!"

He had risen now, and in his sudden wrath he had lost the trail of his order. The very flecks of spit that clung to his chin as he spewed them spoke of his zeal to protect Gondor, but also of an unspoken desire- a desire that he should see the fabled Isildur's bane.

There Morthondion stooped, bowing lower than ever, when Denethor was compelled to resume his seat upon his steward's unadorned throne.

"We are, for good or ill, to take Osgiliath. If you see evil or foul deception, if any quarter of the city reeks of poison, plague or aught of the dark arts- I am to be told, but pray, do not withdraw troops. The people's morale will rise- but a cause for fear this is indeed if no heed is paid to us by our dark foe."

That would be, in convention, the dismissal, but Morthondion would not go, for he had yet another matter of which address would need to be made.

It was out of the ancient rule that one must speak when spoken to that he tarried, and irascibly, Denethor's hand motioned in a curt wave for the last of his messages.

"Lord Steward, Faramir your son sends word from Cair Andros. The Rangers of Ithilien espy orcs, easterlings, southrons- by the hundreds if not thousands- it is to their harrying that the question must be put. How many do you command be slain, my lord?"

And it was here that Denethor would be brought to do that which he seldom had cause to- for he smiled.

"If my son is indeed possessed of any quality, he will slay them by the thousands that comprise their number! Every archer we command is to shoot every arrow that may be shot. Why, that is most excellent news, for we shall now open the gates! My riders shall scorch their rear-guard, and we shall meet them on the battlefield, cutting them down as they pass with the furious haste of the lords of eld!"

Faramir's young herald was brought again to falter, for indeed this response he was warned of, and yet again, he had no answer.

"My Lord, Lord Faramir would have you know that such a course may be… unwise. If we are to meet them in battle, would it not be simple for them to turn around and flood our lines in their overwhelming numbers? If the rangers are to shoot at will- if our cover is gone- Cair Andros will fall. And even if their way is west and west alone…"

"Confound it all, coward of my son's tutelage! Their purpose is the ring- I know it for I have seen it. Have I not sat the highest tower and fought battle after battle with my mortal will against the might of Sauron himself? If only _he_ were here- aye, if only I… had not sent him away… the-the orcs go west, for my poor Boromir, while Faramir would skulk in the shadows… h-how must I…"

Gasping, Denethor collapsed upon his chair for the second time, cursing himself in his mind with all the fervour of a Dwarven thespian and rhetorician. Morthondion, blessed be he, had the discretion to maintain his silence.

"Herald. What I say to you now is what will come to pass, and naught else is possible. They will not turn. We will rout their forces. And even if a few soldiers are to fall, their sacrifices will set the people's hearts ablaze with the glory of a true victory. We are desperate- something must be done. Sauron has given us the opportunity to show our strength to our people- I daresay we take it while his error persists. That will be all."

"As you wish, my lord. For Gondor!"

"For Gondor."

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

**Mithlond (Sindarin):** The Grey Havens

 **Círdan:** The Shipwright, one of the first elves to awake and the oldest elf on Middle-earth. His actions in the first age helped save Elvendom in Middle-earth. The ships that sail to Aman (the Undying Lands) are crafted and sailed by his mariners.

 **Elbereth:** The Elves' name for Varda, who is also known as **'Gilthoniel'** (Star-Kindler) and **'Elentári'** \- Star-Queen.

 **Elenath (Quenya):** Stars

 **Anar- **The Sun

 **Cuiviénen-** The 'bay of awakening', the place where the elves first woke under the light of the stars in the First Age. It is now lost to time, as the land upon which it lay has most likely been destroyed.

 **Erestor-** Most learned among the Elven scholars of Rivendell

 **Ósanwë (Quenya): **The method of telepathic communication employed by powerful elves wherein their minds and 'fëar' (souls) are extended to meet with another's.

 **Peredhel (Sindarin):** Half-elven

 **Estel (Sindarin):** Hope, Elrond's name for Aragorn.

 **Olórin:** Gandalf's original name as a Maia.

 **Vilya:** Elven Ring of Air, greatest of the three Elven Rings.

" _ **Nai herucormo taltuvë, nai morgûl quelmë fanyarë, Ai nárraumo nancarindo, nahta-cotto nu fuinë!":**_

This chant of Saruman's in Quenya translates to 'May the Lord of the Rings fall; may dark sorcery blacken the clouds. O hell-storm of devouring flame, burn my enemies in deep shadow!"

 **Morthondion:** Son of the Blackroot Vale


	3. The Siege of Orthanc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Dark Host of Sauron betides Orthanc in a sea of black, and Saruman is insidious.

** THE TIME THAT IS GIVEN TO US **

_“White!' [Saruman] sneered. 'It serves as a beginning. White cloth may be dyed. The white page can be overwritten; and the white light can be broken.'  
  
‘In which case it is no longer white,' said I. 'And he that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.' - Gandalf”_

_  
_― **J.R.R. Tolkien,[The Fellowship of the Ring](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3204327)**

**Chapter 2: The Siege of Orthanc**

* * *

_“They are coming.”_

This one utterance did pass the lips of Gandalf the Grey, and his captor sneered; but he said not a word.

For Saruman swept his robes and marched forth from the high chamber in which his erstwhile colleague lay chained, ring yet held on the pinnacle of his staff, while Gandalf was left to think.

The dread screeches of the Nazgûl would pierce the tortured airs every spare moment as they raged against the will of the Many-coloured one. The terrible sorcery he had conjured from his song of power was manifest as a storm; not of flame, as was common among Aulë’s folk, nor of shadows and darkness as was the inherent might of the One Ring, but of lightning- terrible, crackling lightning that would lash the airs as many-tongued whips.

For all the might he had ostensibly gained, the new Ring-Lord, as he had in his vainglory declared himself, was a complete and utter prisoner.

From the ground, he was surrounded; not a speck of the scorched soil of Nan Curunír was visible under the hordes of Rhûnic clansmen, the caravans of Haradrim tribesmen and the dreadful, squelching sea that was the tide of orcs.

The elite troops of Rhûn, Nár-rîm they were called, were bedecked in armour of gold that struck not quite as beautiful but as eerie, and in an odd way, _draconic._ With their many-pronged halberds they flanked the circle of Isengard, cutting off escape.

The Haradrim were come in their droves, and their horsemen rode in circles; even Mûmakil, few in number, had been compelled to make the long journey west with their palanquin-seats and scores of archers that shot barbed arrows with tips of a most vicious poison.

Most fearsome of all were the Black Núménoreans, for the sea-craft of Núménor was not yet lost, though it lived on in the vilest heirs. Their black ships had landed weeks prior at southern Tharbad, and their Black-clad troops, trained in the art of quenching lives from birth and given purpose and livelihood by war, had so bled the defending Men that all fled the trade-city; and soon Tharbad was left yet another desolate lair for the servants of Sauron.

Under the devouring might of all the east, the Dunlending puppets over whom Saruman held sway were annihilated without trace. Perhaps a few men and women escaped and yet preserved their way of life- none knew and would care to know.

He who held the One had no ally and no escape, for both the land and the airs were shadowed by his foes, and he could do naught but wait, and study.

The wills of the Nazgûl were weakening, that he knew- and yet they would hunt him, stand against him, so used were they to the yoke of Sauron alone. If Saruman himself was to wield the One, he knew it would betray him, knew it would have that one moment of power on his mind to silence his wards and slip his finger, falling into the awaiting grasp of the Witch-king.

He needed yet the full extent of his maiarin might to stand against the Nine, and that he would unlock piece by piece, breaking silently the bonds the Valar had placed on it. In this, his only fear was his father, his Atar- and he knew well that Eru Ilúvatar would not place his hand on a matter so significant. _It would not do to have the mortals disbelieve their own world, would it?_

It was painful, and tiresome indeed- and yet the pain felt almost sweet, as does the kind that precedes relief and reward. Whatever pain of the fëa he felt, however, he felt satisfied in inflicting upon Gandalf in greater degree.

Sauron was oddly hidden to him, no matter how strenuously one would search, and search he did, for long hours with his sole companion the Palantír.

There was no siege weapon that could breach the obsidian of Orthanc save the fires of Sauron himself, and as they were curiously absent, Saruman paid the great host of darkness no heed. His chief peril was to be found in the Ringwraiths, and against all nine he plotted and schemed with great fervour. He feared to use the fire to which he was so attuned- for it was said the Witch-King held mastery over it as well, and he knew of how the Ring might betray him, filled with Sauron’s own fiery fëa as it was. Nay, there was too great a risk of seeing his own flames turned upon him.

It was to his fortune, then, that he had taken a certain liking to a new weapon, one far more precise and far more deadly.

Sparks of lightning crackled once again in his fingertips, and he enjoyed their crackle, revelled in their heat, for he knew of how it would bring his foes unto ruin. A shame he had not thought of it before- the domain of Manwë was not so trivially dismissed as he once thought it.

As for his own Uruks, thousands though he had bred by foul craft, it was but a meagre force when faced with Sauron’s legions. The strongest among them, man-uruks and half-trolls he had sent to the Misty Mountains, to await his return.

The rest met a far darker fate- one of his own design.

Great sorcery had been unleashed a week ago- and far greater would be employed this night, if all went as he willed it. The black greatstaff thrummed with a terrible power which had given rise to a crack in its own obsidian, but a tapering line on the rounded edge… and yet the most of it was contained within the One Ring, which lay hot upon it, waves of heat and power arising in a crescendo Saruman found rather pleasant.

The Shadows of Melkor scarce answered any save their eternal master unless adequately _compelled-_ and sacrifices had always been rather an efficient and effective means to that purpose.

Simple-minded creatures they yet remained, with fear and the lust for power ever at the forefront of their thought, despite the intelligence and intuition he had worked so very hard to build within his new Uruk-hai. It was a quick matter to summon all to the foot of the tower ere Sauron’s armies reached, where he had set up great vessels of foul water to which he had claimed to add a tonic of ‘wizardly enchantment’ they could scarce comprehend.

This ‘elixir of might’ would apparently rouse in them a fervour of rage and might in which to bring ruin to the Lord of the Rings’ armies and win spoils and infamy for themselves- in truth, it was but a quick-acting poison of nightshade that awaited them.

Upon culling a large enough part of his own armies thus, Saruman drained the might of their dying fëar and bound it within the Ring (for which he found another purpose; apart from holding Sauron’s fëa, it could serve as a receptacle for nigh-limitless power). The orcs possessed little enough in authority and might, and very little could be drained effectively ere the fëar left the circles of Arda, and yet the sheer number of them was enough to afford Saruman a considerable fount.

The Uruks, upon the realisation that ‘Lord Sharkû’ had betrayed them, could do naught, for Saruman summoned his will and ruthlessly assailed every foul creature of his own creation within his sight, employing the power he had only then gained to crush their wills and crumple their bodies lifeless. No spectacle of flames, frost or tempest, for they but collapsed to the might of the Ring.

The great surge of power upon this terrible atrocity (perhaps deserved by the race, but an atrocity nonetheless) Saruman had used to unlock a little more might of his own, and then he sang a song of power as he never had sung since the elder days in which the world was fair.

This song, however, it was dark- it was tyrannous. Darkness shadowed the skies and blackened the clouds, and ever a ring of flame and lightning crowned the top of Orthanc, the only ward which yet kept the Nazgûl at bay and the innumerable host quaking in fear.

The time was come, however, that he should end his imprisonment of his own will.

The silent, deliberate step of the many-coloured Istar lead him to the cell where he remembered he had incarcerated in especial his two dear guests.

* * *

_‘Mr. Frodo? Mr. Frodo!’_

Drained by carrying the weight of failure and dismayed at having the precious monotony of two hours’ fitful sleep broken, the hobbit made to flail and slur his words as he told his dearest friend to leave him well alone, when he was greeted by the cruellest awakening any ever can receive.

A shriek of pain, choked and strangled by his inherent drowsiness left his throat which felt as if it had swallowed flame.

His limbs shook beyond his control and his teeth chattered, body wracked with terrible pain as he felt white-hot iron pokers being thrust into every pore of his skin.

Sam watched with fear but hatred greater still as a bolt of lightning struck his master and friend yet again, the path of which his eyes followed to a clawed, white hand belonging to a tall figure that stood at the door, robes changing hue with every shift and sweep.

The cry was this time not dulled by torpor, and the orcs of Sauron bayed and the men of the east steeled themselves as they heard evidence of effective torture.

A freezing rain had begun its torrent, borne by the fell winds of Saruman’s conjuring, and the storms of lightning that struck outside were ever-persistent.

In harmony with the thunder-strokes were the thuds of the black greatstaff as he walked with purpose and menace to the former ring-bearer, flashes of light illuminating his fey features and expression of grim anticipation.

‘If you touch him once more, wizard…”

A sentence left unfinished, for a strike of the staff met Sam’s head, and the pain dulled his senses; and yet the hobbit found some reserve of strength to not fall to the ground and recover. Staggered though he was, he reacted quickly enough, moving to whack the wizard where he knew it would hurt terribly, when Saruman jerked his hand in alarm and he was thrown to the wall.

Surprised though he was at the erstwhile gardener’s courage and the strength he derived from it, he proceeded as he planned to Frodo, who yet quaked from the tortuous lightning-stroke, and gently, deliberately, knelt on one knee.

From his robes he drew a sharp dagger, point wicked and grinning for blood upon it, and laid it almost softly upon the hobbit’s neck.

A thrust of his will, and Sam was jerked awake, the sight that awaited him filling his eyes with tears.

_“No… no, you c-cannot… How dare you threaten him? How… how could you?”_

The phrase, both warning and plea, slipped his mouth and Samwise knew of how the wizard scoffed in distaste at his garbled choice of words, yet he felt compelled to speak for Frodo’s sake, for the Shire’s sake, dry throat and running words be damned.

The knife’s edge pressed ever more gently and yet ever more firmly onto the skin of Frodo’s neck, near enough to draw a thin line of blood. Saruman allowed Frodo the room to turn his neck and gaze at Sam, but would not allow his mouth to move, forbidding his whisper to let him die, to never bow to Saruman’s will.

His gaze, however, told of it as powerfully as it could, a silent, knowing expression of calm acceptance and determination in the face of his own demise.

The Ring-master’s teeth bared in a snarl, and he pressed the knife ever closer, drawing a faint trickle of blood, and yet the hobbit did not lower his gaze.

_Poor Samwise broke._

“Let him go… let Mr. Frodo go and I… I shall do whatever you would have of me. Yes, you fiend, whatever you would have of this gardener, but you let him go!”

A full-toothed smile that glinted like a dagger crossed Saruman’s face, and he lowered the dagger to stand, moving behind Frodo and placing the tip upon his nape.

“Rise.” he said imperiously, commanding Sam to walk in front of him, as he led Frodo onward by knife-tip.

Frodo sighed for what he felt was the thousandth time- yet again, it was all in vain. Was that to be ever his doom? His searching, burning glance struck the eye of Sam for a moment, after which the latter lowered his own and turned away, unable to bear Frodo’s gaze.

* * *

The monotony of silence was broken by the same deliberate, heavy footfall he had come to hate with all his fury, accompanied as ever by the rhythmic thuds of the black greatstaff.

_“So you have come at last, Saruman… it seems, for all your rotten plots and foul schemes, you can scarce bear to leave me to my thoughts, so desperate that you are to inflict your stench upon others. I daresay… ah!”_

Gandalf’s eyes widened and he blinked them, tears welling in them inevitably at the sight of the two hobbits being prodded to the chamber by Saruman’s knife. His senses, robbed as they were of their fine edge, did not detect the light footfalls of the Hobbits. They smelled not of rolling hills and streamlets and Longbottom leaf as they ought- but of the dank odour of imprisonment.

Sam was once again brought to avoid the wizard’s gaze, for he could not bear it, and at this Gandalf’s wrath rose greater than before. He found he could not rise, for his feet were chained, and yet raised himself to sit to the effect of clawing viciously at Saruman’s face.

The many-coloured one stood a safe distance from his colleague, and did not seek to restrain him, for the greater the wrath aroused in Gandalf, the further his design reached its object.

The Grey Wizard found finally the sense and strength to roar _“Ururuinë Entuluva!”_ and fire born of Narya’s power leapt from his hand, a terrible flame, wrathful in intent, aimed directly and lethally at Saruman’s face, but a barrier of force beyond sight rose and quelled the flames ere they reached the Ring-Lord.

Saruman amused himself with the idea of directing the flames at the hobbits if only to see the fear and shock on his old friend’s visage, but thought little of enacting it for it would compel Gandalf to cease the spell. He stood, therefore, calmly and nonchalantly abating Gandalf’s wrath as he spent his strength, laughing in that terrible, evil cackle that came now so naturally to him after the Grey Istar eventually collapsed.

He moved thereafter to the pillar to which Gandalf was chained, and with a word of command he silenced the spell of strength he had laid upon the chains themselves. He drew a key from his robes, and commanded Sam to remove Gandalf’s restraints, keeping Frodo at the knife’s tip should aught be attempted that was beyond his will.

He circled silently then, walking insidiously around the wizard, nearing him gradually with each passing step. It continued, Gandalf unchained yet helpless, until Saruman stood right above his prone form. He stooped to whisper:

_“A pity, is it not, that your power should spread itself thin thus? That the bonds of restraint the Valar laid upon you stand to obstruct the justice you would bring?”_

And Gandalf could do little but nod, for blasphemous though the words were, he was… _brought…_ to recognise what he felt was truth in them.

 _“Do I not deserve your judgment, Gandalf the Grey, beyond it though I am? Are you not_ reduced _\- is not your will_ demeaned _by this failure to summon forth the might that is rightfully yours, given by Eru, inherent in your fëa ere time began?”_

Here yet another tremor of wrath rose within him, and Gandalf nodded silently, for he indeed thought the same.

It would take another caress of poisoned honey, and as a coiled viper, he struck.

_“Behold yourself, Olórin! Brought low by another, unable to effect a rescue of your pathetic friends whom I will slay upon my whims! A maia should never be laid thusly low! Rise, rise beyond your shackles, accept my gift of might! For otherwise you are helpless and your friends shall suffer a doom more terrible than the most agonising death.”_

This was blasphemy. Utter blasphemy, and he knew it. He was aware Saruman sought to manipulate him, but truth be damned, he was right!

He raised himself to his feet, hands curling to fists, beholding Saruman in wrath, holding his gaze with fiery eyes- and the Ring-master was pleased.

Within an instant, Saruman had taken the Ring from the top of his staff and worn it upon his hand, and this act was heralded by the screeches of the Nazgûl. The Morgûl Storm ceased, and the clouds abated, and the fell steeds of the Nazgûl flew with sweeping wing, hook and claw towards the pinnacle of Orthanc.

And yet the Wizard would do something far more terrible, for ignoring entirely the nine, he thrust the full might of his will at Gandalf’s fëa, tearing at his core and searching, searching relentlessly for the bonds the Valar had laid upon him.

The power of the Valar was great and their devices subtle, but they held no influence over Middle-earth by choice, for they had laid down its guardianship. It was, then, inevitable, that some restraints and shrouds would be found- and with an efficient ruthlessness, Saruman struck them off.

“ **Argh!** ” cried Gandalf in pain, for with the restraint went part of his fëa. Silver-grey it glinted, a beautiful hue- and then some unseen darkness came for him, filling the entirety of the void it left.

Saruman was well-pleased- it seemed the shadows of Melkor had taken a liking to his old friend- but the sheer magnitude of the shadow that leapt into Gandalf startled him.

Struck with a terrible pain, an incurable pain of the fëa, Gandalf felt suddenly a rush of power, great power that was both his own, and a new, dark power that begged for release.

Without meaning to, he unleashed it, and Saruman was flung to the wall, Frodo with him.

Recognising the opportunity, Gandalf cleared his mind and rushed to annihilate Saruman’s fëa, but saw to his dismay that Frodo had fallen with him- and the ever-present guile of the former White Wizard yet endured, for his hands had found once again the knife, and he had laid it once again upon the hobbit’s throat.

Seething then, Gandalf strove for control, as it was all he could do. Even in this darkness, struck by this pain and shadowed as his will was, he reined in the darkness, and his palms were hued no longer black as they had been.

Saruman, meanwhile, had risen, and walked immediately to where the Ring lay.

 _“The hand of Saruman is not so lightly betrayed.”_ he muttered softly, for he had expected the Ring to take its first opportunity, and thanked his presence of mind after the eventuality occurred.

Gandalf, then, saw three figures- a Saruman he had yet again failed to foil, a Frodo whom he would not let die, opportunities be damned, and a Sam who quaked with fear.

The last of those sights he saw caused a throb in him, and he lowered his palm, filled with regret and shame.

_“It tastes wonderful, does it not? Are you not exhilarated? Cease your contemptible sanctimony, Olórin, and tell me truthfully- do you not feel again… young?”_

He had fallen for it before. He would not this time deign Saruman with an answer.

The silence was met with but a small twitch of frustration, and regally arraying his many-hued cloak about him, Saruman grandly pronounced “If it is to you of any satisfaction that you succeeded in forcing my hand, pray savour it now- for when I am left with no choice, it is wise for one to fear.”

And with that he ascended the winding stair of Orthanc, hobbits forced to lead by knife-point, with a gait slow and filled with such silent menace that Gandalf had naught of choice but to follow steadily and in his own time.

He wished to raise his voice in protest, to do all within his power to stay the hand of Saruman, but did not, for he knew it would be as for nothing.

And so Saruman Ring-master ascended the highest stair and threw open the iron door, hobbits made to quake at the living nightmare that awaited them.

* * *

Nine there were, in Black Raiment and on Black Steeds, with Nine black gauntlets raised into the night- and at the fore, the Witch-king of Angmar.

They saw naught of his face for it remained no more visible to the unshadowed eye, and all that remained for one to behold was an iron helm, resting upon a fell flame.

The Fell Beasts they rode, corruptions of the wyrms of the Withered Heath, stood perched with talon and claw, and black wings fouler than fumes of coal-ash. On these creatures of Mordor did the Nazgûl fly, and they did not now dismount- for much to Saruman’s wrath yet to his expectation as well, they did not afford him the least reverence, still bowing to Sauron above all.

_Precisely an alteration that was of the essence._

To hold _it_ yet upon his staff would be foolish, and he then wore it openly, offering no words of scorn as was his wont, for they would have little effect on foes nigh-emotionless.

_“Surrender to thy true master the Nazg, nuristar, and be slain by his will in turn; for if thou shouldst dare resist the Will of Barad-dûr, we will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, where thy mind shall be flayed beyond recognition, and thy fëa shall be broken piece by piece under the gaze of the Dark Lord!”_

This the Witch-king pronounced, with a voice terrible and sinister, shrill and deep, in a whisper utterly deafening.

And Saruman laughed, laughed in a haughty scoff- a full laugh, not that evil cackle born of machination.

_“So be it, then- for thou hast chosen thine end. Thou fool- thou shalt not hinder us, as have none.”_

A silent command of the Witch-king, and the steeds of the others rose as one- for sword-formed teeth and spearlike claws, and a tempest of wings were upon Saruman within an instant, and the wizard would surely be rent with a thousand wounds. They would take from him the Ring, and they would carry his fallen form to Barad-dûr, where he would die a thousand deaths… _but not._

For the Ring was deceptive in its make, deceptive even to its true master.

A storm of benighted sorcery had arisen, and enveloped Orthanc in gloom that was darker than night. The Nazgûl were struck down by their own shadows, as the might of Morgoth rose from the deep cracks of the world to answer the command of the new Dark Lord.

The might he had drained from the dying fëar of several thousand Uruk-hai contained within it the ancient sorcery that Morgoth bound within the orcs’ corrupted forms when he first created them; and diluted by years and blood though it was, it still maintained its full potency, and a wall of shadows rose to crown Saruman and hold the Nazgûl at bay.

Alone among the Nine, the Witch-king advanced. His will was great, as was his dark might in his proximity to the One. He rose as the fell phantom he was, discarding mace in favour of sword and Morgûl-dagger held within his robes, and at once holes were ripped in his beast’s unfeathered wings, and it was blown away to where the shadows cast it.

Saruman threw at the Morgûl-lord illusions of a hundred blades, of a hundred dark warriors ostensibly greater than he in stature and strength, but the Lord of the Nazgûl knew but one aim.

The swords of those in front he parried aside with his crossguard and flat, never counter-cutting for it would amount to wasted time and thought, and the blades of those behind struck his armour and pierced even the dark iron of Sauron’s forge, but he cared not, for he felt not his undead sinew, and he knew it to be the work of a song of power, of an illusion cast in the world of shadows in which he abode.

And so he advanced as a dread phantom of the Night, and Saruman felt an inkling of fear, thoughts anchored by how useful the Witch-king would undoubtedly prove as a servant.

The Storm of the Night ceased, and the other Nazgûl made to dismount, for beasts, no matter how fearsome, would be no more use- but Saruman had stripped them of their shadows and terror, and all that remained to them was the Black Breath they breathed and their existence as nine undying Kings of Men.

And now he would use his mightiest weapon, his voice.

“Come now- Kings ye were, great kings of great lands, and surely ye have not last all ye sight? I am master and I am lord; the Ring is mine, and so shall it be forevermore. Bow now to me, for ye wills I hold in thrall by right- and if ye doth not- ye purpose is forfeit, as is ye will. For ye can do naught, naught in summation ‘gainst me. Bound in darkness to ye service of the Lord of the Rings ye are, and that I am, for that is I.”

He threw then a great plume of flame into the air, most likely yet another sorcerous illusion for summoning true flame could be done by virtue of only a song of power, and the Nazgûl beheld as the Great Eye was formed, but the symbol weakened, it was quelled by stronger flames to become the White Hand, the insignia of Saruman.

And then it was broken.

The surge of a black will from the east, and a dark proclamation of will from the ever-present voice in the mind of each Ringwraith-

**“Be ye not swayed by the words of this craven impostor, for bound to my service and mine alone ye shall ever remain. Forth now, and claim from him what is mine!”**

Beyond all his thought, Sauron still endured. His voice- _the voice of Saruman, for Arda’s sake-_ had failed. He therefore employed the one weapon that remained to him.

Streams of Shadow and Lightning shot from each finger of his palm, eight streams for each Nazgûl and his two thumbs to the Witch-king.

The Will of Sauron, however, propelled them on. The Nazgûl drained might, as well, from the armies of Mordor below, but Saruman’s power was too great, and they were propelled to the edge of Orthanc, where they strove with all their shadowed will- yet the Witch-King advanced ever onward, unmindful of the lightning, and as a coiled viper, he struck.

A thrust of his will, and his sword had lit with a fell flame, a wave of sudden power silencing Saruman’s lightning, and with deadly precision, he struck.

Saruman held his staff in a primitive guard to defend, and the Witch-King knocked it aside with a crooked strike, and as the self-proclaimed Ring-lord recoiled, he raised his blade to slay…

_“Ai Elbereth! Ai Gilthoniel!”_

The name stymied his strike, for a Hobbit now stood before him, ferried into the path of his blade by the long arm of Saruman, and he had uttered the Star-Kindler’s name.

For the mention of the Lady of the Stars halts all black thought, and there they stood for a moment, Nazgûl-lord, Treacherous Istar and the quaking hobbit between them.

_It was too much._

* * *

_“NAY! YOU WILL NOT TAKE HIM!”_

A burst of terrible flame, greater by far than any of Saruman’s illusions and mightier in heat than even his lightning, and the Witch-king was cast from where he stood, robes set aflame. The Sword of Terror he wielded was struck by the same flame, and it melted, for even the Iron of Barad-dûr, forged in doom-fire and tempered by dark sorcery could not stand against the wrath of Gandalf the Corrupted.

He emerged then, eyes glowing a terrible red from the grey they were, smoke rising from his blackened palms, mouth cracked from speaking Dark Words of power.

His visage, old and lined with care, seemed at once more terrible to behold than an eruption of Orodruin. His form appeared to rise, towering above and shadowing all about him.

His wrath rose again, befouling and twisting the air around him, and mouth tainted by the poisonous power he unleashed, spewing blood, he spat:

**_“Machān- aiya akašān, rušur dušamanūðhān!”_ **

A veritable firestorm of rage and hatred struck the Nazgûl, as their robes were burned and their fëar were cast from their shells, even their undead sinew and flesh burnt to metaphysical ash as their shadows were ripped from them. Their screeches were cast into the shadowed night illuminated by Gandalf’s explosion of might.

The Witch-King himself was cast from his form, and with one last gaze he conveyed his thought of pure malice- and Saruman twitched, as if an unknown and very terrible chill had struck him, but not Gandalf, who annihilated all in the fires of his wrath.

 _“None may touch those for whom I am given to care.”_ pronounced he, and the storm ceased- the obsidian spikes that crowned Orthanc’s summit were now naught but mere ash.

Gandalf had not called forth the flame of Anor, nay- for it answered in acts of offense and calls of wrath and darkness. Nay, it had been a very different flame that had come forth from him- and it was a flame born of the darkest shadow. _The flame of Udûn._

He knew of the shame, of the utter dread he should feel- of having failed completely in his duty and of having unleashed the full might of a maia upon Middle-earth.

It was, however- _intoxicating. Rewarding, relieving, and freeing._

And then he looked upon Frodo, poor Frodo- the one who had stood bravely before all the Nazgûl while being used as a shield by Saruman himself- and he had fainted, unable to bear this one thing.

Instead of remorse, however, hatred and anger filled him yet again- hatred against Saruman for hurting him so, for using him thus.

Ruler of the Ring he may have been, but Gandalf cared not. Saruman would perish by his hand, devoured by an endless storm of flame, his pleas of mercy ignored-

_And a bolt of terrible lightning struck his temple, forcing him, by physical law, to unconsciousness._

Saruman was glad- for his every last plot and machination had come unto fruition. Gandalf was turned to Darkness, and he had wielded it- and with such terror that a part of Saruman feared what far greater destruction Gandalf could unleash should he seize the ring from him- but that part, and whatever reason came with it, was silenced in the triumph of his victory.

Sheer terror should keep the armies from firing bolts of iron from the many cruel ballistae of Mordor’s forges, and he wrested control of the will one of the Fell Steeds the Nazgûl rode.

Throwing Gandalf onto its ridged, horned back, Saruman himself assumed an imperious seat, if such a thing were possible, and forced it by imposing his will to fly towards the Misty Mountains.

Orthanc would fall, for sooner or later, the dark host would break perhaps a window and construct a ramp to enter it, or choose to rain all they had at their disposal to finally break the obsidian wall if they had devices of such capability- it would be a necessary sacrifice. He needed another piece of his plan to stand against that army of innumerable count, however.

His will prodded the beast’s with the same relentless direction- _‘To Moria, to Khazâd-dûm!’_

The two hobbits were left- Frodo unconscious and poor Sam weeping- for they would now find their own fate as specks of light in a sea of darkness.

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

One may notice that I employ the adjective ‘obsidian’ time and again to describe Orthanc. That is due to it being (ostensibly) constructed of obsidian, strengthened by Núménorean stonework and craftsmanship (Núménor being Westernesse, the ancient Kingdom of men that preceded Gondor and Arnor, mightier than any other dominion in its age).

Nothing is capable of destroying Orthanc’s stonework despite Saurons fire, and this the attackers may have, except perhaps not in a siege weapon precisely intended to this purpose. Gandalf easily annihilates its structure by unleashing his full might.

 ** _Nan Curunír (Sindarin):_** Wizard’s vale

 **Aulë:** Smith among the Valar, the one who crafted the substance of Arda, the world. Sauron and Saruman, as maiar, were once **Mairon** and **Curumo** respectively, his apprentices.

To rekindle memory, **Rhûn** was the eastern state which aided Mordor, with its people referred to as ‘Easterlings’ and **Harad** the southern, with its ‘Southrons’.

 **Nár-rîm (Rhûnic):** The Lords of Fire/ The Flaming Ones. Purely my own creation, the Nár-Rîm are an ancient martial order of Rhûn founded in the days of Khamûl the Black Easterling when he was still a King of men, and persisted after he turned Nazgûl. Their warriors are bedecked in a golden armour, and they fight mainly the dwarves of the Orocarni Mountains (Many Dwarf-clans live here, east of the Iron Hills). Their place being mainly in other tales of mine, they shall not be expanded upon further here.

**Tharbad:** A prominent city of Eriador; as a port, it holds the key to the sea.

 **Melkor **is another name of Morgoth. It represented who he was in the beginning, meaning ‘He who arises in Might’, for Morgoth was formerly the mightiest among the Valar.

 **Shadows:** I should like here to elaborate one of Tolkien’s concepts. ‘Shadows’ were little spirits of Darkness that roamed lands of evil freely. They could be either half-formed thoughts of the malicious, or even maiar, primitive and less in stature, but most shadows are manifestations of the power of Morgoth.

In the First Age, Morgoth poured a great part of his unmatched power into the world so that he may hold dominion over it, thus gaining great influence on the fates and dooms of those who walked the lands but losing much of his own power in the process, resulting eventually in his defeat and imprisonment.

These ‘Shadows’ can be summoned by the will of one mighty or by words of command to unleash malice and destruction upon any foe- yet they are treacherous as well.

 **Narya:** The Ring of Fire; the second of the three Elven Rings. Given to Gandalf by Círdan when he first came to Middle-earth.

 **Olórin:** Gandalf’s original name as a maia when he served Manwë.

 ** _“ Ururuinë Entuluva!”_** **(Quenya):** “Come forth again, great fire of old!”

 **Morgûl** **(Sindarin): **Sorcery of Morgoth; a common term used to refer to Dark Sorcery involving the aforementioned ‘Shadows’.

 **Istari **is the correct word for the Order of the Five Wizards. **Nuristar (Sindarin),** therefore, means ‘Shadowed/fallen Wizard’.

**_“ Machān- aiya akašān, rušur dušamanūðhān!” _ **

“By the authority that is given me, by the power that is within me, I say come forth, dark flames of marring!”

This is an example of a ‘Word of Command’, spoken in Valarin, the language of the Valar. In Tolkien’s legendarium, there is no such thing as ‘magic’ as one would be used to; instead, all sorcery involves using one’s will to alter the world around oneself subtly. True ‘magic’ is found in either Songs of Power, as Saruman did sing in the previous chapter, and in such words of command. Gandalf uses this to summon the flame of Udûn, dark fire which Morgoth employed to scorch the world and imparted to his Balrogs.


	4. Pathfinder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which treachery is revealed to Elrond and Glorfindel, and the elf-lords take counsel for their next course. All the while, a never-before witnessed contender strides into the arena- one who has both built and destroyed empires, yet has remained throughout a mystery.

**THE TIME THAT IS GIVEN TO US**

" _The road must be trod, but it will be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet it is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: Small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere."_ _  
_

― **J.R.R. Tolkien,** **The Fellowship of the Ring**

* * *

**Chapter 3: Pathfinder**

" _Elrond, mellon-istui. My warrior-companion of eld under the star of Gil-galad- my dear friend. Save your thoughts of surprise at hearing from me in these times, and hark close."_

"And what, pray tell, should rouse you to call to my mind at _this_ hour? I know of the shadows that surround your realm in Lasgalen, of the phantom of Amon Lanc arisen yet again. What would call you from your duty to your realm thus?"

" _There is little time, mellon. Take from your hand the ring Vilya and cast it to a place where it may never be found save by your own will- do it, I say! Do it now!"_

"Thranduil! Sedho! Soft, now, and rest your mind. I have done it. I believe, however, that I am owed your reasoning behind this. If you would but care to tell…"

" _A thousand apologies, mellon-istui. A wiser lord than I would have done right by utterance at this very moment, but my heart cannot yet bear the release, for thought of my dear Legolas. It is my desire that he be allowed one further night of restful sleep- but one, I fear, for they shall be scarce in opportunity in the times that are to come. It is the concern of a father, as you well know- will you allow me this one respite? Will you allow him this one rest?"_

"Ah… very well. If it is a matter of such grave import as you suggest, I am bound as Lord of the Last Homely House to seek the truth of the matter- but I will allow you this one night, mellon-iaur. For as you did say- I do indeed know. All too well."

" _Then I thank you. Ah, and a last matter, Elrond- please, see to it that he is safe. See to it that he does not… fall. If this is the very last request I make of anyone upon Arda, then so be it- but I implore you, protect him. I am not with him- and I know that Doom has led him to Imladris, Doom I cannot control. It would be unwise of me to stand against the threads of time and causality- and thus, tell me- you will watch him, will you not? Keep him as I would? Defend him as… his father… would?"_

"This upon my life I swear. As long as I yet persist within the circles of the world, no harm shall come unto him. You have my word."

* * *

" _ **Lord Glorfindel!"**_

Lindir's call rang through Imladris as a clarion-call of the House of Fëanor of old, and the golden-haired elf-lord was quick to answer, light footfalls tapping the ground as tenderly as would the falling leaves of an oak.

Such urgency was uncommon in the Last Homely House, but an occasion of its lord falling to the ground as if in pain, with a loud proclamation of _'Nay, this cannot be!'_ followed by utter silence could only herald grave import.

" _Elrond, nadh mael! Man naed?"_

The Lord of Imladris raised his head steadily, every breath costing an effort as Lindir knelt beside him. A clipped, silent rustling told them that Erestor was coming with all haste. Elrond accepted Lindir's arm and rose to his feet, his fëa shuddering but his mind enforcing its iron will upon his fána to stay still and not shiver.

Glorfindel nigh glided the final few steps to his lord and friend, Elrond raising his arm in a gesture of placation, although his breaths were yet quite audible. After Celebrían's… _departure…_ he had never been the same, and he rarely was given to indication of any emotion whatsoever. Glorfindel, however- a lord of Gondolin in the First Age- was ever in the highest of his counsels, and knew his ways as a letter. He saw Elrond then, and perceived his mind- for he _felt_ its cogs turn and thoughts arise, and he knew then that a truly terrible calamity- aye, it could be nothing less- had come to pass.

"Na-gwaelir cîn megil, mellon." Elrond uttered calmly, not even sparing a glance at Glorfindel's sword, which he hastily sheathed. It appeared he had drawn it subconsciously, an instantaneous reaction upon believing his lord under threat- for he appeared surprised that it even was at his hand. Elrond could only thank his steadfast friend- a friend who would give his life to protect his own- for by Eru, he would need him at his side.

"You did not answer my question, Elrond. What is the matter? I believe I am owed the substance of a reply, if you recall your promise."

Elrond said nothing, turning his eyes instead to the approaching Erestor. The scholar had already a myriad of herbs and healing concoctions at hand, some Elrond recognized as of his own invention.

"I assure you, Erestor, that I am quite well. Nay, it is not draughts of healing I require, but something rather stronger. I bid you, go to the cellar I keep in my study and bring forth for me the Beleriand Vintage I have so jealously guarded- for if I have need of it, it is now."

The scholar was rather taken aback, for Elrond had not only forgone the courtesy of allowing him speech, but had also deigned to send him forth with a most peculiar quest. The Lord of Rivendell had always possessed an impossible composure, and it thus escaped him why he would demand the very oldest and strongest vintage of wine that yet existed upon Middle-earth. Dubiously, he nodded his head and set forth with all speed- the sooner he returned, the sooner he would come to the heart of the matter.

Elrond himself swept forth, possessing to an observer his usual majestic grace, but in reality forging forward aimlessly and blindly, thrice thankful that he knew the labyrinthine paths before him rather better than the back of his own palm. He made for his study, and Glorfindel followed him, Lindir and the others filing away at a glance from the Balrog-slayer of Gondolin.

"I did have your word, Elrond. You promised me you would pronounce every last one of your woes, and would hark to my counsels in how best to resolve them. You promised me after Celebrían, and such a vow is not one to be taken lightly."

It was perhaps too harsh, reminding Elrond of the incident that sundered him for life as naught had, but the Lord of Rivendell thought little of it now- for he had made a silent vow to himself, one not to let past sorrows drain the strength he would need to carry himself and all his people through this age- and such strength was of the essence now.

He looked at Glorfindel not with sorrow or regret, but with a firm eye that softened gradually- finally setting loose a wearied sigh, after which he sat on his chair of mahogany, the weight of a thousand sorrows driving the strength from his immortal knees.

"I fear, mellon, that even if I were to exhaust the entirety of my considerable powers and resources at keeping what I saw to myself, you would come to know eventually, for 'tis a tragedy of greater weight than aught else of note in this age- and were I to do as such, I would be the vilest traitor to the Eldar since perhaps Fëanor."

Glorfindel said nothing. Elrond's words would drive a lesser elf to paroxysms of claustrophobia, yet the reborn Balrog-slayer knew that his friend looked to him for strength and resolve, and would not be found wanting. He therefore refused Elrond's unspoken offer to sit, and crossed his arms, gazing intently at the eyes of his lord.

" _Tell me, mellon- for this weight is not your own to bear- and even if it were, I would be damned ere I saw your shoulders overcome by it."_

"Perhaps it would be better if I showed you."

Elrond then held up his right hand, beckoning Glorfindel forward. He allowed Glorfindel to take it within his fingers, and upon feeling the _emptiness,_ Glorfindel knew.

"The ring Vilya- it adorns your finger no more."

It would be invisible on his hand in even the most mundane circumstances, but upon extending forth his fëa in tendrils of light and feeling, Glorfindel no longer felt the steady flow of power, that fount of might that surrounded his lord at all times. It rendered his presence vaguely galvanising for even the least elf- and all that crowned Elrond now was a deafening _silence._

Elrond nodded wearily, bidding him continue.

"If you have cast the ring of air from your hand- the very ring that enshrouds this valley in arcane protection- then it can only mean that the _One_ has been found."

Glorfindel finished silently, not daring to believe, but not showing his fear. He had lived under the yoke of the Dark Lord Morgoth- he from whom evil itself had come- and had not then shown aught of fear, and would not now. He was, however, fearful for others- for the Eldar were now lesser and failing in strength. Theirs would be an insidious, loathsome destruction, fading away under the yoke of the new Dark Lord.

"Then Sauron has found what belongs to him, and seeks to herald our doom, is it not? Elrond, we must act! We cannot let the Eldar fall into shadow. The road to the west must be made clear, those of us that can be saved must reach their salvation in the west. I shall venture forth personally, and hold the roads from the blighted tide as long as I may, and I bid you…"

He was silenced upon seeing Elrond shaking his head.

" _Know this, Glorfindel- what we must fear most is not death and destruction. It is not bloodshed and rot- it is treachery."_

"Treachery may be his chiefest weapon, but you cannot truly believe that Sauron has defeated us! Ages of defiance, all for naught? I refuse to believe…"

" **Nay. Not Sauron."**

Glorfindel was struck into silence. Who else, then, could inspire such immediate fear. If it was any other ruler, the elves could surely pass in the years it took the ring to wholly claim their mind…

" **Saruman the White- 'chief' of the Istari- has betrayed us."**

_By the Valar._

Glorfindel stepped back, struck by a sudden fervour of thought.

" _It was he- ever had it been he, with his secrets and shadows and forbidden lore."_

"Aye. He holds in his thrall both the ring and the ring-bearer."

"How came you by this? He abides in Isengard, and we have not ventured from the valley for days! Why, indeed, aside from the silence of Estel, there can be no account of his victory save his own- and that he has succeeded in finding this cursed evil, pulling it from under the very nose of Mithrandir sadly heralds that he is not as much a fool as I thought him. If he is to be assumed, then, to possess even the least degree of cunning, it cannot be that he would declare this victory to Middle-earth at large until he marches for conquest, is it not?"

Elrond nodded subtly, straightening his shoulders and rising from his chair to place his hands on Glorfindel's shoulders.

"Your deductions are as precise as ever, mellon- but there exists one account beyond his. That of Mithrandir himself- so have I heard from Aran Thranduil."

"Thranduil? Had you not spoken of him to me, and told me that he is… reluctant… to stretch forth in ósanwë? Elbereth bless him for his prompt action, but even then I fear that we have little time. How long has he had the ring?"

"A few weeks, by Thranduil's conjecture. This news came to him… from the mind of Mithrandir, a captive in the white wizard's tower of Orthanc. Glorfindel, I bid you mourn- for never shall the Grey Pilgrim come again to our halls and share his tales in the Hall of Fire. So falls a maia this day- for he told Thranduil little of his fate but the definitive statement that the worst would indeed come to pass."

Glorfindel pondered awhile. Could a Maia die? Certainly not, for he would return to Valinor- but that would not be Saruman's way. For Glorfindel saw in him now a far more insidious, nefarious foe, and when he opened his mind to the full extent of villainy of which Saruman was capable, the thought of 'the worst' struck him immediately.

" _Ai, ai ai!"_ he wailed, a poor, pitiful sight, that the most resplendent of all elves on Arda save Galadriel would be turned to mourn so. Elrond, who had faced far greater grief than most and emerged victorious, patted his friend once or twice, sending forth his subtle enchantment to warm his heart, although he would whisper no reassurances in his ear.

" _Tell me… tell me truly, I implore- if Mithrandir is to stand against us, what then?"_

"I will be truthful, Glorfindel. I am skilled in the art of war, but my heart is not that of a warrior. I may have learnt the dangers of detachment after Celebrían was… taken from us… but I cannot bring myself to slay him. I might say that I shall do this deed to reassure the hearts of all against the worst- but in truth, I cannot."

"What of me, then? All here will look to me, the Balrog-slayer, to… _do what must be done…_ against another maia- but how? I cannot simply kill him! I… I might draw my sword, I might stand against him in challenge, and if indeed he threatens your life I shall do what I must to protect you- but even in all my years, you are wiser than me, Elrond. Tell me, how ought I to slay him when memory of countless nights spent listening to his tales intertwined with the minstrels' melody slacken my sword-hand and belay my intent?"

"Hush, now. I pray to Ilúvatar it shall not come to that moment. He may yet find the strength to resist- he may yet find his way to the shores of Valinor. If the worst must come to be, I… cannot lose faith. I am told he is the wisest among the Maiar. When he sees us, he will know us. Of that I am certain."

Glorfindel nodded once, inwardly silencing his sorrows and calming his beating heart. Elrond turned, then, to the balcony, and Glorfindel followed him, weighted in their knowledge that they must decide the fate of Arda.

"What else, mellon- what else did Aran Thranduil say of the matter?"

"I am afraid there was little. Of the matter of Mithrandir, he was unwilling to say more than what I have told you. I believe he has a secret he sees fit to withhold from me… and I shall not commit the very same mistake of many a Noldo before me. I shall trust his judgment, and in this I am resolute."

Glorfindel turned an eye to Elrond before gazing once again at the pristine beauty of the valley below them.

"Ah, and ere I fell, I heard a final thought. 'Worry not, for there is yet hope. Many a time have you granted it to me in the past age- and so is it my duty to grant to you the best hope I can in these Dark Times. _She_ will come."

A faint frown crossed the Gondolindrim Lord's visage ere he banished it- Elrond, however, was quick to notice.

"I cannot fault you for not interpreting his thought in all, for all among us save perhaps Galadriel would have been struck worse than you were. One thing is then apparent, however- _there is still hope."_

An unexpectedly heavy footfall for an elf was then heard, and mutterings about 'Servants… most learned scholar… udûn-cursed locks…" was heard, and Erestor had emerged upon the balcony, holding a crystal decanter of a wine so sweet yet so overpowering that a man of Gondor would have been intoxicated by the very smell. Elrond looked at it and was pleased, and offered Glorfindel a glass.

Erestor, ignored for all the while, looked very cross indeed. He would have many a heated word with Elrond later (or so he thought). Elrond did not need to gaze at him to feel his impatience, and offered Erestor a draught as well- although diluted for wine from the First Age was perhaps not ideal for the constitution of those not born in it.

"Send for every guest of importance in my hospitality" he told Glorfindel, mindful of the incensed Erestor. "It is of the essence that they find themselves in the courtyard below as the sun sets, for in that hour shall the fate of the Free Peoples be decided.

* * *

The horses ceased their gallop, and the riders saw fit to dismount. The dark, baked earth cracked under the weight of one, yet the other's motion remarkably created nary a dent.

Æthelweard the vanquisher, captain-general of His Majesty's storm guard, lowered his head in a half-bow- the customary gesture of respect among his people. Even the great plume of feathers on his helm seemed to bend in reverence to his companion- bedecked entirely in his resplendent silver armour and holding a majesty one could only imagine in a tale of fantasy told by some of the more poetic troubadours. In his mind, not even the Emperor could hold such absolute sway.

The silver one seemed, at best, unruffled- he had grown far too used to these gestures of absolute deference that he did not bother with any hint of irascibility.

"I await your command, most esteemed Resurrector-lord".

" _Then you need wait no more, dear friend."_ said the ancient Avar, idly noting how the man's chest raised itself an inch or so, and how the forehead stretched taut in attention and no small amount of pride at the 'declaration' of their fellowship. A simple tactic, and one that had worked oft in his ways.

The title 'Resurrector-lord' was one that yet rankled the elf, and yet his features would show what they must- acknowledgement of propriety- as all in the Hither Lands would address him after he forged for Emperor Beorhtric his sea-spanning southern empire.

Taken aback, Æthelweard coughed before his little utterance- "Surely, great Resurrector-lord... surely this cannot mean an end to my duties? I was assigned personally by His majesty to see you to the end of your ventures as far as the horizon may extend... I bid you, cast me not from your side thus, for I swear upon my life to remedy aught that has been remiss of me!"

The Dark Elf's mouth curved in a thin line. He enjoyed indulging these absolute fools at the best of times, but now he had not the while nor his patience to waste. He replied, sternly and grandly-

" _And that is why you fail, Æthelweard. While you must be lauded for recognising my dismissal, I can say naught as to your interpretation of my thought. Think not of what must not concern you, and leave me to see to that which none of your ilk need have knowledge of. Go, now- take forth these fine horses Emperor Beohrtric would gift me, and tell him that I most humbly refuse. The feet I have been gifted must henceforth suffice."_

Perhaps that was a tad too harsh, for he indeed loathed the haughty words that passed his maw- yet he knew well that is how these Atani saw him, and they could not be persuaded to see him otherwise. They would expect such a response, such an aloof pretense of mystery, hidden knowledge and higher authority- and who was he to deny them their expectation? To be concise, it did indeed work to his favour.

"I am to take it, then, my lord, that you are bound to the Northlands? On behalf of our glorious dominion and all our people, we bid you take caution. Long has his majesty advised against any dealings with the dark dread of Middle-earth-"

" _You forget yourself, Æthelweard. Spare me these thoughts of worry, for they have naught of meaning. Is it that you forget it was I who persuaded his majesty of the imperative that Middle-earth be cast from his thought? Nay, you may not follow, and you may not keep me. I have shaped the Doom of the Hither Lands and the Dark Land as it was to be in the Grand Design- it is now time for me to do what I must with the Doom of Middle-earth. With my home."_

Æthelweard lowered his head, then, in that same gesture of reverance, and the elf turned on his heel, striding lightly across the dark terrain of the Northernmost parts of the Hither Lands.

"Pray tarry, O Resurrector-Lord- what service would you command of us? For I am given my duty as the Emperor's ear, and your words shall reach His Majesty's side. If you are to leave, great Resurrector-Lord, we would wish of you a tenet- a last, sacred commandment, such that we may rise evermore above our strife."

The Elf required little time to interpret the meaning behind these flowery words. His lips curled in a wry smile- perhaps it would indeed suit him and all else to have them prepared.

" _Tell the Emperor this- that war will soon come to his threshold and fall upon his door with the force of a thousand hammers. The threat that was innate has been quelled, quenched by my effort, and so too shall must this new darkness come from without be silenced. I have told His Majesty the tale of the Dark Lords- he must know, then, that a third rises, his power benighted and beyond any other, for he has found his prize. Tell him that he should fear most not bloodshed but treachery- and that he must be weary of the Blue Phantoms, the Wizard-lords. One most definitely- if it comes to both, then we shall all be unfortunate indeed. Yet that is my endeavour, and one he is not to question."_

The bearded chin of Æthelweard furrowed in a scowl, turning immediately to the Dark Elf's retreating form- only to see it gone. These portents of war seemed indeed ominous- but had the Resurrector-lord ever lied? To their enemies, perhaps, but never to the empire- it was impossible, for in his dearth, it would not exist. He shook his head- it would not become him to ponder what was not for him to understand.

' _Bundcyning_ keep you, revered Resurrector-lord!' he shouted, as loudly as he could without betraying his position, and made swift headway south with the other horse in tow.

The Elf, already a long ways away, chuckled softly- he had never quite heard such a very imaginative or _impossible_ name for Ulmo. Their tongue had some appeal to it, but he rather despised the conflicting syllables and the guttural undertones. He fancied himself quite the linguist- and though he spoke Avarin, his mother tongue, with pride, his favourite was, in fact, Sindarin.

Ithilrandir, so he had been named- he knew it not to be a correct name, as the words made no sense when together- but the same could be said of him, could it not? It always amused him, to think of how his Calaquendi cousins would respond on learning of an elf who built empires and threw them down, who wielded atani as his weapons instead of blades and enchantment, shaping the fate of distant lands to his will.

When his tremendous network of espionage had brought to his notice that Middle-earth was stirring, he had been intrigued- but upon the _calling_ he had felt through the Olórë Mallë, sent from Valinor itself if the _voices_ were to be believed- it had been time to return, at last, to his homelands.

Ithilrandir the Pathfinder smiled yet again, for a new Dark Lord had risen, and people would then forget the old- but not he. He never once paused as his feet turned the way of Mordor, where the shadows lie.

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

All Elvish spoken in this chapter is Sindarin.

 **Mellon-iaur:** Old Friend

 **Mellon-istui:** Learned Friend

 **Sedho -** To rest

" **Elrond, nadh mael! Man naed?":** Elrond, are you well? What is it?

 **Celebrían,** the wife of Elrond, was captured by Orcs shortly before Thorin's company came to the valley. She lived, yet was wounded, and thus sailed to Valinor where she found healing. The event still left Elrond heartbroken.

" **Na-gwaelir cîn megil, mellon.":** Sheathe your sword, my friend.

 **Beleriand** was a land west of Middle-earth where the events of the Silmarillion took place. It sank at the end of the First Age in the War of Wrath in which Morgoth was defeated by the Valarin host.

 **G** **lorfindel** was initially a lord of **Gondolin,** the 'hidden city', the chief stronghold of the Noldor (Fingolfin's line) in the First Age. He faced a Balrog on Cirith Thoronath, a mountain pass, and each slew the other, the Elf-lord sacrificing himself to save his fleeing people. For this act, he was rewarded by being rehoused in his fána (mortal body) and was sent back to Middle-earth.

 **Fëanor** was mightiest of all the Noldor and the creater of the Silmarils, unparalleled jewels that Morgoth himself was taken by lust for. Morgoth's theft of the Silmarils prompted Fëanor to force an oath on his sons, one to retrieve them at any and all costs. To reach Middle-earth, they killed their own kin, the Teleri, in what would become known as the 'Kinslaying'.

 **Avar-** Singular of 'Avari', or 'Dark Elves'- the descendants of Elves who refused the journey to Aman when the Valar extended the invitation before the First Age began (see: Cuiviénen). **'Calaquendi'** or **'Eldar'** are descendants of those who accepted the invitation, their forefathers having seen the light of the Two Trees of Valinor that lit the world before Morgoth contrived to slay them with the great spider Ungoliant; after the trees' demise, the Moon and Sun were made from a leaf of the silver tree (Telperion) and a fruit of the Golden Tree (Laurelin) respectively.

 **Æthelweard:** 'Noble Guardian'

 **Beohrtric:** 'Bright Liege'

 **Ithilrandir:** Moon[lit] wanderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: As I understand many questions will come of the latter half of the chapter, the 'Hither Lands' and the 'Dark Land' are the other continents of Arda besides Middle-earth and Aman. I have long planned to write a complete original story for both the worlds but those plans are quite simply very, very dead.
> 
> The basest knowledge that one must have is that in the context of this story, the lower half of the Hither Lands (where Harad ends) and the entirety of the Dark Land are under the dominion of an empire, one that Ithilrandir helped create and brought to power.
> 
> Æthelweard and Beohrtric are simply me abusing my knowledge of Old English. I thought about describing an original language but abandoned it, as simply inventing words never did sit well with me. As for Ithilrandir himself, his character is my interpretation of a character already present in Tolkien's legendarium. I shall provide a hint in the form of his original name-
> 
> 'The First the First'
> 
> Yes, that is indeed his name. 'The First the First'. I do not jest. Look at poor Círdan- 'Shipwright the Shipwright'.


	5. The Return of the Nightingale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Valar commune with a stricken daughter and wounds are healed, as a decision is made

** THE TIME THAT IS GIVEN TO US **

_“In the spring when the wind is in the new leaves the echo of her voice may still be heard by the fall that bear her name.”_ _  
  
_

**―** **J.R.R. Tolkien,** [ **The Fellowship of the Ring** ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3204327)

* * *

**Author’s Note:** This is where I expect to temporarily lose most of the readers who do not have prior knowledge of the Valaquenta and the Quenta Silmarillion, as the Valar are involved for this chapter. From the next onwards, it shall continue exclusively in the context of ‘The Lord of the Rings’ with the addition of a singular Silmarillion chapter whose coming this chapter is set to establish.

* * *

**Chapter 4: The Return of the Nightingale**

_“… and that, my lords, is why I… fear for Middle-earth, and why I must ask your counsel in this matter.”_ she finished, shuffling a little, looking down and biting her lip.

She knew she had been spouting utter nonsense in front of the Valar, in the hallowed Máhanaxar of all places. With her tongue waggling and accomplishing little else, she cursed herself for the utter fool she was. Her words had struck no aim, and this long soliloquy was for naught, as she spoke for the sake of speaking and thus spoke little of her mind- bound to speak as she was for thus did the Valar command her.

 ** _“Rise, my child”_** came the grandest and yet the softest voice, imperious and soaring but richer and sweeter than the finest wine. She hesitantly raised her chin, eyes half-closed, to meet the piercing blue eyes of Manwë, the Lord of the Breath of Arda, the Elder King.

**_“Long have you persisted within Valinor, a shadow of regret and mourning ever shrouding your fëa. Of this you have spoken truly little, and have refused offer after offer of aid.”_ **

Melian was tempted to lower her gaze and bow, to apologise most profusely- for Lord Manwë never quite _chided_ anyone. Yet as she moved to offer apology, she witnessed the Elder King shake his head and sigh, the weight of a thousand sorrows carried within that one breath.

_“ **Nay, I rebuke you not. ‘Tis your fear that I would rebuke you that saddens me so.** **Know that I find your strength admirable- but my kin until now thought your stubbornness unhealthy. The truth you have veiled thus far, however- that truth now shines to me clear as Ilmarin’s crystal.”**_

“M… my lord- naught ails me, I implore you, believe my words! ‘Tis s…simply the matter that I wish to know your will of whither I should go…”

At this, Manwë’s eyes shut solemnly, and a solitary tear found its way down his cheek. He raised his palm and Melian ceased her speech immediately, as Varda Elentári, his queen, spoke his part.

Melian herself was almost moved to tears, for she had ever seen the Elder King as an imperious lord, surety in his rule and purpose in his eternal mind, guided by the hand of Ilúvatar. Seeing him mourn so- it set the very air awash with stains of sorrow.

_“The truth, daughter of Irmo, is one we hope you will not begrudge us. Long have we waited, and as Middle-earth stirred, at Manwë’s behest I have delved into your mind, and there I have seen sorrow mired in depths of regret- for your lost love prevents your healing. We know now the truth- you will not be healed by us, for you cannot.”_

The words of the star-kindler were trenchant to the extent that she thought her skin translucent, and it appeared as if they were seeing within her to her very fëa. So struck was she by this lance that she did not even care her thoughts had been read. At that, her courage rose a little, and she gazed at the Star-kindler, who continued- voice every bit as imperious as the Elder King’s, if a little less soft and more piercing.

_“You assume us distant- beyond you- and for all we have done to deserve such apprehension, we seek your forgiveness.”_

**-What?**

“N-no, my… my lady, You have done naught to w…warrant such…” she stammered helplessly, unable to believe the matter that the Valar were _seeking forgiveness_ from her, a mere Maia.

**_“And it is that error we wish to set right. We are not as far from your plight as you assume us, Melyanna... for I mourn as well.”_ **

The Elder King spoke at last, and she turned to every one of the Valar that were present- all had adopted a visage of solemnity and sorrow, the light of the flame imperishable within their eyes dimmed by their grief. Nienna’s tears flowed forth as they ever did, but from the sorrow she drew strength, and granted it to her brothers and sisters. Only Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar, was unmoved, standing impassive as a monolith in his black robes.

_“We mourn as well, daughter- we mourn Olórin, he who was dear to us as a son- and my dear Mānawenūz finds himself hesitant, for it is his belief that he sent him to his death.”_

Manwë bent his head once, looking at his wife in sorrow, and Varda tightened her grip around his hand, ever stronger in the weight of his burden. The dumbstruck maia watched as they took comfort in each other’s presence- it assured her that she was not weak after all, not weak for showing her emotion.

**_“Gaze hither and yonder, Melyanna- whom do you find absent? Ulmo aside, we find ourselves in the presence of all save Aulë and Yavanna. You are not weak as you suppose yourself, for Aulë could not come- he mourns as well. He mourns his fallen sons as you mourn your daughter and spouse, and yet he cannot find healing. I but ask that you commiserate with your own self, and ponder this question- how would you seek to find healing?”_ **

And at that, the dam burst. The Elder King’s encouragement had not only given her courage, but had also kindled within her that bitter, acrid fume of wrath the ages had condensed. Unbeknownst to her, Manwë had known of the eventuality, and had thus accomplished a dual purpose.

Turning to face the grim Doomsman in all his majesty, Melian uttered, silently at first-

_“You wish me healed? Release him, and I give you my word that it shall be so.”_

The Doomsman’s eyes, black as the void, gazed at her impassively, and she held it with her own gaze, now fiery. Her pretence of meek deference had ceased, as the Elder King had planned, and it was perhaps for the better that grief had dulled her perception thus.

Vairë the Weaver shared a glance with Nienna, and they knew at once. An unseen agreement was reached, it seemed, and at the centre stood Námo- unfazed, and yet privy to the entirety of the matter.

“Fëanor’s sons may be woefully mistaken in the tales they tell of you, Lord Doomsman, but I beg you, though it is not my place- I beg you, please do not stoke them with substance facing those who have not willed unto themselves such a doom. I beg you, answer me, please- for this silence is torture and you well know it!”

Still nothing.

“Answer, by Ilúvatar!” she near-screamed, and upon realising the words that left her mouth, she fell silent.

_Shouting at the Doomsman of the Valar. Ah, what new depths you plumb._

**“I shall reiterate what I have pronounced for all to hear. Elu Thingol is bound to my halls and to my care, bound until he is healed and absolved of his sins. If he is released ere that has been fulfilled, his fëa is forfeit. This is the will of Ilúvatar, and this is Doom.”**

She had fallen silent, now gazing at the Doomsman in all his might, as the majesty of his piercing voice inflicted a sort of weight upon the air around her. She felt music- a music of a perfectly ordered frequency, the notes low and silent and yet resonant. It rang constantly as the lowest thrum upon the finest harp, and persisted within her fëa until she acknowledged it.

 _“Speak, child. Be not silent, for we wish it not.”_ said Vairë gently- but how could she? She could scarce believe that they wished her to speak more after she had been thusly obstinate- after how she had railed baselessly at the Doomsman.

Lórien, master of Dreams and Visions and her own lord, however, thought differently. He knew his daughter best, and he wished her restored most earnestly of all- and he knew the only way which would elicit the response they wished of her.

_“Ibrīniðil! As we speak, my brother perceives your every thought. He knows your intent, and were I in his place, I would be insulted, for I have less patience than he. Speak what lies in your heart ere we must find it, and cease this grovelling. Never have we commanded such utter obeisance from any, and I am, verily, struck by this insinuation that we would wish this of you!”_

And at these stern words, she understood. They had planned this all along. Most likely they knew what she would say, and had prepared answers. Unbidden anger at the Valar rose within her, and she made to quell it- but was that not what they wished? That she unleash her bitterness and rage? Whatever punishment they would see fit to decree, she would have already thrice deserved it. With an inward sigh, she threw open the floodgates and cast herself into the maelstrom.

“Why, then? Why? Ilúvatar is… is a benevolent father, but why, then, must we suffer so? It began when I l-lost my Lúthien… my dear, dear Lúthien… but Elwë? For that one slight, he is to be doomed to an eternity in… custody? Is it for my marriage to him? Was I mistaken? Elwë… Elwë loved me, and he loved his people- he was a King both wise and just, and for that one _damned_ mistake, he must suffer an eternity? Why, then, may I not see him again? Why do you not allow me to go forth to him, and to hold him in my arms again, be he clothed in fána or otherwise… why?”

She wished to portray anger, but her treacherous eyes had begun to water. Pearlescent tears, held in place for six and a half thousand years had begun to spill, for they appeared now beyond the iron control she typically enforced.

At this, she witnessed Námo, lord of Mandos, rise- and only now did she behold that his black robes had to them a silver trim, hidden as if by a trick of the light. He rose majestically and grandly, and walked purposefully to where she stood- but as she made to retreat, she found her own lord, the younger Fëantur, had walked up behind her.

Irmo offered her strength through the bond their fëar shared, but would not smile- he but urged her onward, his intent clearly for her to face his elder brother.

It was then that Melian was brought to behold the eyes of Námo- where once they were the uttermost black, they now shone with the ancient light and power of the flame imperishable. Within the depths of that all-encompassing light she saw naught of grim judgment, only an infinite compassion.

His eyes held her as he bent down on one knee, and took her arms within his- she had never imagined that the grand Doomsman would reach down thus to gaze at her on the level at which she stood- and he whispered, in a voice softer than the caress of time.

**“The Grand Design of Ilúvatar is beyond our comprehension, best beloved- and thus, we endeavour as we may to enact our part within it as best as we can. You wish an answer to the eternal question, that of why Atar allowed our brother Melkor his ways- and I shall tell you as best as I know it. In the dearth of Melkor’s evil, there would be no good. In the absence of his darkness, there would be naught known as light. Where there is beauty there would be naught of note, for we would not possess horror with which to contrast it. And in this his fall is a tragedy, for his actions were ever bound in time- as are ours.”**

It was Manwë who spoke then, illustrating, as ever, a depth in the argument she had never before quite seen.

**_“You ponder why I would mourn my brother and grow saddened at his imprisonment- ‘tis for he had naught of choice in the matter. He could do little but turn to what he did, for it is law, and Atar intended it so. We are further bound by doom than our maiar… our children- and thus we look to you, Melian. We have need of you for you can shape doom, change it, weave it in the most wonderful ways. That is why we need you, and cannot do without.”_ **

She beheld the Elder King, who knew her sorrow, and who mourned his own Maia… _nay, Son…_ and she thought of Aulë, he who was struck so deeply by two betrayals. She had ever thought of Mairon as unworthy of mercy- he who had attempted to hand her daughter to Morgoth on a platter, and who had turned the Naugrim of Nogrod against Doriath in revenge after she escaped- and she now saw Curumo, he who had brought such terrible sorrow to even the Vice-regent of Ilúvatar, as little less- but such comfort was cold, and did naught to lessen the pain.

She was drawn to feel kinship, to feel closer to the Valar around her- for they had suffered as they did, and were struck by the preponderance of a hundred other, greater evils. Yet they wished to empty her of venom, and thus she turned her mind resolutely to the Aulëan traitors- Mairon and Curumo.

_Mairon and Curumo. She had never forgiven, never forgotten._

“Then what of they who strike us so? What of the… _traitors…”_ She was brought to pause, for she saw the Elder King… _flinch?..._ as if struck by her words.

_“Call them not traitors, Ibrīniðil. That they had choice means not that they were traitors, for they were misguided. Tulkas and Oromë, perhaps, would regard them as such- why, then, do you find that Lord Manwë has not sought their counsel? For their hatred of the enemy runs deep, and their darkness has pained them as would a wound of festering rot. ‘Tis their nature to fight on the front of war- but were we to accept their course, Middle-earth would be shattered by the battle to come.”_

She looked at Irmo, her lord, who had spoken words that Thingol, in his later years, would have deemed heresy- sacrilege against the Valar themselves! On these words she was persuaded to view the matter with an open mind- yet the matter of their actions remained unaddressed.

“What of the works of evil they wrought, my lords? What of the thousand lashes Gorthaur inflicted upon Middle-earth in the Second Age- and the First? What of his attempt to… _take my daughter away from us…” -_ at this, she seethed with rage- “And the… dwarves of Nogrod…”

Here, she could control herself no longer, and a few sobs came forth, though she did her very best to choke them. This was all entirely new- she had never before acknowledged these sorrows, and it felt as if one had taken a knife and carved her skin such that old wounds opened anew. Mairon of old had been a friend- a dear friend, with all his wit and skill- and his betrayal had stung deeply, but those were days in which little could be certain, and she had taken it in her stride. When Lúthien had defeated him and cast him from his tower, she had felt anger at the maia- anger rather overshadowed by the pride she felt of her daughter.

The final incident, however- it was too much for all to bear. _“High Chancellor Fangluin”_ she recalled, the name tasting as bile upon her tongue and she spoke it. She had never thought he would plumb to such depths to have his vengeance- that he would shapeshift to a Dwarven form with what power he had left and infiltrate Nogrod as the descendant of a noble family of dwarrows- that he would spend years swaying the stubbornness of the dwarves to turn Lord Naugladur’s wrath against Doriath.

She could never forgive him that slight. At this thought, the tears ran anew, and she found herself embraced all of a sudden. There were none who had embraced her in all these years- and she fulyy expected her own lord, only to find herself in the formerly impassive Doomsman’s arms. She sank into the embrace, for it soothed her wounds and healed her fëa- this was the Doomsman’s sphere, she realised belatedly. He would not but judge fëar- it was as well his duty to heal them.

 _“Were I to narrate to you his tale, my child, were you to see his tale in the tapestries- you would find that he has been struck by tragedy as you have. Have sympathy for the lost, my niece. ‘Tis merely the matter that you had the strength to turn away- and he had it not. Is it, thus, just for us to blame him? Perhaps, but is he so beyond the reckoning of justice that we must condemn him to the void?”_ spoke Vairë, and Melian was plunged into thought.

“I… will try, my lady. I will attempt forgiveness. You… have my word.” she said solemnly- but she had noticed that they had not spoken of Curumo. She had always been rather precise- and in that vein of precision, she held the thought in a corner of her mind.

 **“Thranduil of Mirkwood has sought to shift the sands of time and alter the Doom of Middle-earth by calling to you. The many dooms have thus been changed by his calling- it is now your choice to answer or refuse. This act has been brought at the behest of Olórin himself- for the wisdom of his lord shines through his thought in this deed.”** said Námo, releasing her.

She understood it now.

“You… you do not wish to fight Curumo. You… you wish to halt him such that others may find that strength to win their war. Were we to strike Middle-earth, _she_ would… shatter… beyond reckoning, would it not?

The Valar bowed their heads collectively. They had planned this, of course.

“And I am alone among your sons and daughters who shall not hurt _her,_ for I have walked upon _her_ lands ere this day and understand _her_ as none of my peers do.” she said softly.

“As none of _us_ do.” corrected Nienna, ere her tears fell in rivulets.

“Why, my lords, do you not but command this of me? It ha sbeen made clear that this is the only choice…”

 ** _“We do not command this of you for I refuse to lose you as I have lost Olórin. Námo has made it apparent that the Doom of Middle-earth shifts as we speak, and thus naught is certain. I cannot send you to your demise as I sent him.”_** said Manwë, regarding her again with the full brunt of his piercing gaze.

“Am I not inconsequential when my worth is weighed against those thousands who will suffer if I do not go?” she asked.

 ** _“_** _Nay. Not in the least.”_ said Elbereth, and the light of the stars shone through her visage.

 _“And yet the selflessness with which you uttered the statement serves only to affirm why you are the epitome of the perfect solution.”_ said Estë, wife of Irmo, with her musical, sleepy voice- and yet it did not serve to rest her feelings. It only stoked them- and that was the intent. The Valië Estë possessed many abilities, and this strength of decision was among them.

**_“We chose to send them forth, the Five, their might bound and their fëar shackled. Their task was to guide, and in that they have failed, for our sight was clouded. We now have but two choices- to heal Middle-earth by sending her deliverance in you, dear daughter, or to leave the Doom to find its own conclusion- for we have laid down the guardianship of the land. This choice- this choice we have not the authority to make. It is, therefore, left to you.”_ **

Long silence.

“M-my lords…” she stammered yet again, cursing her throat for running dry. “As you have enlightened me thus- there can be no choice. N-not for myself. I cannot, in good faith, remain while my… _kin…_ suffer. I… I will accept the shackles, and go forth.

To accept the shackles was a great burden, and for the more powerful Maiar, it heralded no small amount of pain, no matter how gentle the Valar would be in placing them. Her power was innate, and without part of it she would feel wholly alien, as if stepping into a rough-sewn set of uncomfortable clothes and unable to leave.

As one of the more powerful maiar, the pain would no doubt be greater for her- and with the grief that yet hung as a weight upon her fëa, it would undoubtedly be beyond what the word ‘pain’ could convey. She had steeled herself, however, and waited.

 **“Nay.”** pronounced the Doomsman, rising and striding forth to his pedestal.

_“Nay?”_

**“By leave of Manwë, Elder King of Arda, and with Ilúvatar as witness, I pass this Doom. Thou, Melian, scion of Irmo’s folk, shalt go forth unto the lands of Middle-earth, and thou shalt leave _unshackled._ Thou shalt be bound by no restraint, for we trust thee in terms absolute to not strike Middle-earth _herself._ Thou shalt face Curumo and rival the power he hath to himself and his dominion, yet thy might is not in arms but in healing, and so shalt thou defend under thy banner those who would flock to thee ‘gainst the tide of night.” **said the Lord of the Dead, in the most ancient Valarin, and she released a breath she did not know herself to have held.

 ** _“As Vice-regent of Ilúvatar, I recognise this Doom. By His will, let it be so.”_** said Manwë. It was done, then.

Melian made to leave, when one last request came to mind. Her feet shuffled, and she hesitated- for she pondered whether to be appalled at her own temerity or consider it fair leverage after the task she had sworn to do. Irmo, however, was quicker.

_“Ere I allowed you my daughter’s attention, you did promise, Námo. It lingers on her mind still- haste, now, and pronounce your second Doom._

She almost detected the hint of a smile on the Doomsman’s face.

**“Melian, my niece- should’st thou in thy endeavour find success, we shall grant to thy other half, the one known as Elwë, Elu Thingol of Doriath, a new fána in which to be rehoused. Should we find him healed after your quest, we shall release him from Mandos. Should that not be so- we shall grant thee leave to meet with him, as oft as thou dost wish. By Manwë’s leave and with Ilúvatar as witness, I pass this Doom.”**

_Why was the world upside down, pray? Perhaps she was dizzy- she could not tell. Her memory was a haze- ah, she remembered, She was a butterfly, was she not?_

As the cold reality hit her, she drew hasty breaths to clear her mind.

There was one final question, however.

“My lord Námo… if I may- why is it that you would not allow me a visit to my beloved prior?

The smile that came upon the Doomsman’s face then was one of pity, and it was the saddest thing one could conjure.

**“Best beloved, it will inflict yet more sorrow if you were to know- but you shall, for you asked. ‘Tis beyond my power to grant visits to those who are refused- and that is true of Thingol. He refused your presence, for he grieves his sins, and he feels himself not worthy of you and your love. He would thus turn you away with me as witness- and I but do my duty.”**

_Damned be Thingol._

She had half a mind to stride to Mandos, drag him out (what did its enchantments matter), and shout as loudly as she could into his ear that he was a thrice-cursed _idiot. Of course he was worthy, that absolute… hunc…_ ah, blast it to Udûn.

Upon the realisation that the sooner her quest was done, the sooner she could return to Valinor and complete said endeavour with the Valar’s leave, she promptly scurried out in a manner rather inelegant for the former Doriathrin Queen. A boat would need to be arranged, for there was a continent to be saved.

For the first time in a thousand years, the Valar all smiled- all save the Doomsman.

Turning to the Dreamlord, he said in rather a frightening tone, dripping with accusation- **“And now, dear brother, we shall discuss the matter of your interlocution with one Ithilrandir, the ‘Pathfinder’.”**

_“What of him? I bid you, worry not at what must not concern you, brother mine.”_

**“That elf is utterly ruthless.”**

_“That may be- but he is ancient, as we both know, and possessed of a cunning far greater than any with whom Curumo shall advance to reckon. It stands that he is precisely the ointment that Middle-earth shall need, no matter how much the sting.”_

* * *

** GLOSSARY **

**Máhanaxar-** ‘Doom-ring’. A circular ring of stone in Valinor where the Valar sit in council and pass judgment. On the Máhanaxar rests a throne for each Vala and Valië, and they sit and take counsel with each other before Mandos passes a doom.

_**The Valar** _

**Manwë/Mānawenūz:** As discussed prior, Lord of the Valar and High King of Arda. His sphere is the wind and storms. His mind is closest to that of Ilúvatar, and it is by his leave that Mandos passes his doom.

 **Varda/Elbereth/Elentári:** Wife of Manwë and Queen of the Valiër, as yet again discussed prior. She wrought the stars and is most revered among the elves.

 **Mandos/Námo:** The Doomsman (judge) of the Valar. He is the one who cursed Fëanor with his doom after the kinslaying. Typically seen as the grimmest of the Valar, though I beg to differ, for the elvish records of his part is inundated with the Noldorin bias. While Námo is his true name and ’Mandos’ meaning ‘Castle of Custody’ is his abode, he has become synonymous with the place as the Lord of the Dead.

 **Vairë:** The Weaver, spouse of Námo. She records every event of note that has happened, happens or will happen in the history of Arda as embroidery upon her tapestries. She therefore holds power over history.

 **Lórien/Irmo:** Lord of Dreams and Visions, brother to Námo. Lórien is his abode and Irmo his true name, although he and the place have become synonymous in the manner of his brother.

 **Nienna:** Valië of pity and mercy, and of deriving strength from sorrow. She weeps perpetually, though it is not of a personal sadness, and her compassion grants strength to all afflicted.

 **Aulë:** The Smith among the Valar, he who crafted the substance of Arda and Sauron and Saruman’s master. He also created the Dwarves, though they were little more than puppets at the beginning- they were given true life by Eru, on the condition that they would forever be apart from His true children (Quendi and Atani- Men and Elves).

_**The Doriathrim** _

**Doriath** itself was a great Kingdom of the Sindar in the First Age. The history of Doriath is so vast that it is pointless to include herewith.

 **Melian/Melyanna/Ibrīniðil/The Nightingale:** Queen of Doriath. An exceptionally powerful maia, she had departed for Middle-earth before the First Age began. There she met Elwë, lord of the Teleri, and they were smitten. Taking her for wife, Elwë founded Doriath and became **Elu Thingol.**

 **Lúthien:** Fairest (and there is an argument to be made for mightiest) of all elves to have ever been born. Daughter of Melian, she fell in love with Beren, a mortal man, and hence began their epic tale at the end of which she had defeated Sauron with the aid of **Huan, the hound of Valinor,** lulled Morgoth to sleep with a devastatingly powerful song and aided Beren in stealing a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown.

 **Thingol’s** history is yet again too vast to be included herewith.

Doriath fell at first at the hands of the Dwarves, when Thingol sought to combine the aforementioned Silmaril with the Nauglamír, a pricelessly beautiful necklace and second only to the Silmarils in worth. The Dwarven smiths he employed refused to give him the treasure, after which he insulted them, and they ambushed him and slew him. Thus began the feud of Dwarves against Elves.

 ** _“High Chancellor Fangluin”_** was the ‘Dwarf’ responsible for inciting the wrath of Naugladur, lord of the ancient Dwarf-kingdom of Nogrod, against Doriath. In the context of this story, Fangluin was in fact a vengeful Sauron in a dwarven form, seeking revenge against Lúthein and Melian for his earlier defeat.

 **Hunc (Sindarin):** Pig


	6. A Council of Shadowed Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Middle-earth's fate is told to all who may hear it, and remembrance is rent by tragedy

** THE TIME THAT IS GIVEN TO US **

_“Where there are so many, all speech becomes a debate without end. But two together may perhaps find wisdom.”_ _  
_ **―** **J. R. R. Tolkien**

* * *

**Chapter 4: A Council of Shadowed Fate**

**_The Grey Morn_ **

The horse’s hooves beat a storm of winds unto the freshly fallen leaves, for the rider rode in haste and with grave tidings. The narrow ravine that would form the entrance to Imladris had been shown to him by his father, whose hand had driven him to acts of glory and bravery far beyond the ken of his peers, and as he had done from the day he was born, he trusted it with the greatest faith.

And indeed, Denethor had not been incorrect, for Boromir of Gondor found his breath quite taken away by the sight that awaited him. Slowing the horse to a gallop, he pondered, resting his mind, repeating to himself the gospel that Gondor was mightier, grander than this valley ever had been or could be, the very same gospel that had been forever etched into his mind as fine stonework on a smooth wall without imperfection.

Only after convincing himself that the sight, however breathtaking and however… _otherworldly_ could not compare to the glory and majesty of the White City did Boromir lead his horse upon the narrow bridge that opened upon the entrance to the Last Homely House.

He was met with no resistance, for the Noldor of that place had long seen him arrive with their farseeing eyes from a hidden watchtower, and they had first taken note that he rode his horse saddled. That he could not have been of the Eldar now known, they beheld this helm and armour, the heraldry of Gondor hidden by a firm gambeson sewn with embroidery that depicted stars upon a field of crimson.

**_“Mae Govannen, Boromir Denethorion, arothir en Gondor.”_ **

_Drat. I told him to send Faramir, but he never listens, does he?_

He tore his mind from that contemplation and focused on what little of Sindarin he had learnt- although his education had been of the highest quality Gondor could offer, Denethor laid little stock in the knowledge of the elven tongues. What little of Sindarin he had learnt had been from the wanderings of Gandalf, who would indulge him oft as a child- yet he had never learnt the vocabulary nor the structure, as had Faramir.

Not for the first time did he feel that he ought not to have come, and stayed at the front lines where he was most needed. Faramir had ever been fascinated with the Firstborn, and he would have, most likely, felt right at home- how he missed his dear little brother.

Shaking himself from such thoughts, he uttered, in broken speech, his reply.

“Ai, sael brannon. Elen síla lumenn’ omentielvo.”

So focused had he been on uttering the greeting that he had not noticed the splendour of the Elf-lord in robes of silver and mantle of white-gold before him, and he fought an urge to bow. Dismounting silently, he lowered his head very slightly in acknowledgement of Glorfindel.

The ancient Noldo himself was subtly smiling, but it showed only in his eyes- it was an elven smile, and no change came upon his visage, for Boromir would most likely not have taken to it kindly. The Steward’s son himself appeared somehow pierced, his thought brought suddenly to _how much_ the elf lord could determine by but turning his eyes to him. It happened to be quite substantial.

_The words had sounded queer- it was as if one had studied the language but made no attempt at an accent. He spoke without inflection, uttering precisely as the words would appear on paper. Not to mention, that ridiculous greeting had been employed rather too much, adopting the connotation of a cliché among those familiar with the tongue. Nonetheless, he appeared as if he had a good heart._

With a curt nod, he led Boromir forth to Elrond’s hall.

* * *

**_The Drear Dusk_ **

_“Hither, my friends, is where would stand Frodo, son of Drogo, of the periannath- of whom you may have heard in your tongues as Halflings, Hobbits or mayhap Holbytla- and ‘twas his doom to carry forth an object of great peril. That doom, I am afraid I must say, has hence shifted and in its place arises one misbegotten. We shall this day decide the fate of Middle-earth, for the Enemy has what he seeks.”_

There were scarce few who did comprehend the import of Elrond’s words, Glorfindel the only among them to have been privy to the full tale. Would that Mithrandir had been by his side to narrate what must count as a significant part of the tale, and aid them afterwards in the turning of their course- yet the Grey Pilgrim was to be mourned later. With a sigh heavy with world-weariness and sea-longing, Elrond spoke.

“There are many among ye of distant lands who would at first speak their tales, and yet more who have come to slake their thirst with mine own. Boromir of Gondor, come in the grey morn, and Glóin of the Khazâd of Erebor. Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen, by whose word I bear these dark tidings, and Galdor who hails from Círdan’s havens. There are yet more missing- Aragorn, heir to Gondor’s throne, and one I have held close as a son among them, and Elladan and Elrohir who are to me my flesh and blood, sent west this morn to make clear the roads and hold fast the north.”

At the mention of Aragorn, Boromir scowled. _Gondor would hold, with or without King._ Long had Anárion’s line held Minas Anor, and long would they stand, under his noble father- but he did not speak. For Elrond’s mention of one whom he called ‘son’ was but in passing, and there was no doubt that graver words awaited.

“Of those who are absent, naught can be said, for all who stand before me must hear of two matters. The first is of the finding of a relic of legend long-forgotten, one that to this date haunts nightmares among the Eldar but is little more than myth to Men. I speak of the One Ring, the Ruling Ring. Here I shall utter forth the words taken from the Dark Tongue of the Dark Lord Sauron himself, though I shall not utter a word of the tongue itself in the sanctity of Imladris. In the common tongue, the words stand-

_‘One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them;_

_One Ring to bring them all, and in the Darkness bind them!’_

A shadow came upon the face of Elrond as he uttered these words, and all felt silent- and such was the weight of the doom that hung in the air that even gasps of disbelief were stayed until the verse was ended. The Council erupted, and it was deafening to hear, and Elrond was tempted to fall to his chair with weariness- yet the Peredhel’s strength was great, and he wavered not.

“Is it true? Can the legends have been founded on fact? Isildur’s bane- lost for an age- is it not this ‘One Ring’ you speak of?” roared a thunderous voice, and Elrond recognised it as that of Boromir. It was quite clear that all would enquire of where it was to be found- if it had indeed been found.”

“We speak truth, Lord Boromir and Lord Glóin. I would not summon ye thus for misinformation.” said Elrond quietly, and yet his voice carried a subtle power- power enough to convince all present to resume their seats.

“Why, this… _lomilrabulûr_ … this curse… it has been found, you say? What knowledge have we of its existence? What evidence?” said a voice unfamiliar to Elrond, and he recognised the speaker.

“That which I utter is taken from the word of Aran Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen, Greenwood the Great as some may know it. But worry not, Gimli, son of Glóin, for I am not ignorant that Dwarrows are seldom given to trust the words of one of the Eldar. My assurance that what is spoken is truth and naught else aside, this was known to Mithrandir- Gandalf the grey pilgrim- who had conveyed you unto your Kingdom seventy-nine years prior.”

With a huff, Gimli settled down, to be met by the scorching gaze of Legolas, who appeared offended that any would dare question his father’s word. The Dwarf easily held his own, and they did not cease even after Elrond continued.

“We have now little time to narrate the full history of the one. Lord Glorfindel, I bid you, speak of the Second Age and of Núménor long lost to those who would listen, but after. I shall then narrate in brief the fate of this Ring- in this age, it was found twenty and five hundred years ago by a Stoor, creatures I am given to believe are close in being to the Periannath and perhaps their sire, though that is of dubious historicity. It corrupted the mind of this stoor, until he called himself only by the name _‘Gollum’._ There it lay in wait in his cave, lengthening his life and poisoning his mind- until a new owner of greater convenience was to be found.

What you must understand is that the Ring is the greatest among the works of the Dark Lord, and in it he poured a great part of his power and his will, so much so that it has a will of its own. Twisting the strands of fate, it abandoned Gollum, and came unto the possession of a very dear friend of mine.”

 _“Bilbo Baggins, bless that dear, dear burglar!”_ said Glóin suddenly, a chuckle appearing upon his visage, followed by the smallest of tears. Elrond turned to him, and the Halfelven’s face was so very grave that it served to silence him with a glance.

“You speak truth, Master Dwarf, but you shall all notice that he is not present, for his doom turns dark. It is best that he not be told, for I fear for him should it come to his knowledge. This Ring was to pass from him unto his nephew and heir, Frodo, who had been, as I can recall, tasked to come hence unto Imladris, for I was told by Mithrandir to expect him. That shall now never come to pass, for the second matter did befall us.”

“Then what of this… second matter? Can it be aught else, as ye have summoned here the lords of Rhovanion and Anduin’s lands with naught but grave word and the ring in absence? Why, if these portents are indeed etched in Mahal’s truth, then Sauron must have found the ring. I ask, then, Lord Elrond, is Middle-earth set for its doom?”

Elrond’s eyes flitted to Boromir, who had spoken, and turned then to the council. There was but one word he spoke, and the utterance would have brought hope to the hearts of many had not the air been struck by a sudden chill.

**_“Nay.”_ **

All were silent, ere the next word came forth. The fervour of questions could wait.

“In these matters of doom is bound the speech of those who bring its tidings. Legolas Thranduilion, speak, I bid you, of the darkness that is fated to befall Ennor, as from the very word of your noble Father.”

The prince of Mirkwood rose regally, and many did stare, to his practiced ignorance. Suspicions were to be worried, but of the Eldar who knew the doom, they could care little less. Matters of politics could stand to be thrown to the quay-side were they to find triumph against the terror they would face.

“Tis not Sauron whose dread lance shall strike at our hearts, and the weight of fear we must carry stems not from the Lord of the Rings- yet a Dark Lord we must fear nonetheless. Of ye here the wise may know of Saruman the White, Curunír, once highest among the Order of Istari and lord of the White Council. I bid ye speak not his name and renounce his white hand, for he has scarred us with the dagger of betrayal.

Tis he who wields the One Ring, for he found it from Frodo, its rightful bearer, in the Shire. ‘Twas a matter of chance, but ill-chance, that he drew the secret of its location from Mithrandir himself. He turns his gaze now to the lands of Middle-earth, flames of conquest stoked and tongue forked in venom, for he awaits his victory. Victory he sees as inevitable.”

Thence came the gasps, and Elrond but shut his eyes and nodded once, as did Glorfindel. Too great was the shock, for many had known Saruman while he yet worked for the betterment of Arda. _Had not Saruman been a guest of honour at the court of Denethor, summoning all Gondor’s store of lore and drawing from it brilliant deductions that had bought the South-Kingdom much-needed time against Sauron?_ _Faramir knew,_ realised Boromir. His brother had ever ben fonder by far of Gandalf, and had found ways to make himself scarce when came the White Wizard a-calling.

_Had not Saruman brought new life unto the Dwarves’ eastern kin, the Ironfits, Stonefoots and Blacklocks, under the shadow of the Orocarni? Had he not forged for them their Kingdom and their line after the last of the long-worms of the withered heath had struck at their halls in the throes of their ancient wrath?_

Dáin had, however, remained ever weary of his devices, had he not? Yet it was a pity, a terrible pity- so thought Glóin.

Murmurs and whispers rang even among the folk of the Eldar, save those counted among the Wise, for they had been told prior. Erestor glided among his kin as he would, calming those he could and silencing those who spoke without logic. Glorfindel stepped closer to Elrond, and unlooked-for, took his lord’s palm in his, after which the Halfelven felt a surge of strength, and yet he did not look to his friend, silently wiling him release his grip. He did not.

Silence set the airs awash yet again as Elrond’s eyes turned again to the council, and he spoke solemnly and firmly.

“Of those who are in peril as remonstrance, little can be said. Of Mithrandir, he is held captive, and of his fate Aran Thranduil would tell naught. Those who have known him hold every hope in his strength, but should the worst come to being, it should herald little worry for ye, for little aid may ye be in such times. Sauron sent forth his armies ‘gainst the Tower of Orthanc by whose shadow Isengard is crowned- ‘tis providence that the vale finds you thus, Boromir of Gondor, for were you but an hour late in coming, of your end there could be no question.”

Then came the tide- the tide of questions that set upon Elrond as a flood. “What of Eriador? Of Rhovanion? Of Ered Luin, Mithrin and Nimrais?” Glorfindel, blessed Glorfindel, went forth to answer what he may, but from among the thousand voices rang a lightning-bolt, shrill and clear.

It was this one voice that struck fear into Elrond’s heart.

_“Frodo? WHAT OF FRODO?”_

Warily did Elrond turn, and there was naught that could bring fear unto his ancient eyes save the prospect that awaited him. He turned as if not wishing to believe it had come to this, drawing a breath that seemed hesitant and at odds with his manner in every way.

Well-founded were his fears, for there stood Bilbo Baggins, an expression of worry written on his aged visage. The Lord of Rivendell could feel the airs coil around the Hobbit’s form, heavy with a doom unknown. For these fears he would have kept him to his chamber, to be made the wiser gently and with great care, but all was to be for naught as now his voice rang with a strength none had known it possessed.

_“I ask again, Lord Elrond, and I bloody won’t ask another time- what happened to my lad?”_

He knew he _should_ lie- Glorfindel’s lips were already forming the words, but he silenced his friend. He knew now it was doom that the Hobbit must know, for he spoke fact without will, commanded as if by a higher power.

“He was taken from Bag End, for Saruman has by foul device come to knowledge of whence you came. The Ring he has taken from him, and nevermore shall we lay eyes on the thing until the third Dark Lord has been smitten from his throne.”

_“Is it, then, that I… I shall never see my old ring again?”_

He had not expected that question, and he was yet thankful, for the question he had indeed feared had not yet been asked. Elrond prayed, prayed then for a fit of sadness, of emptiness, of loss- he willed any and all of these sensations to take hold of the Hobbit for his own sake.

_Yet cursed be he, Bilbo Baggins was strong._

Taking great, labouring breaths he steadied himself, clutching the gold-laid railing till white was seen on his knuckles. His eyelids drooped, yet no despair overcame him, for the Hobbit had somehow known of this, and it was not what he feared the most.

_“So be it, then. Precious though it was- that little lovely was as a trinket when weighed against what holds my love in chief. And so I must know. Tell me, Elrond- tell me, tell me I implore- what is the fate of Frodo, and of dear Samwise who went with him?”_

Elrond wished a halt unto time, yet ever onward did it lurch, and the words spilled from his mouth beyond his will.

“He has been held captive by Saruman, as has his friend and Mithrandir with them. We know little of their fates… but ‘tis in Orthanc they are held, chained before the Archtraitor’s seat.”

**And then all ceased.**

* * *

**_The Cold Night_ **

When he woke, it was with a laboured breath, the drawn rattle of one fighting against an ever-strengthening force of demise and darkness.

The sensation felt entirely foreign, as if he were not used to it in the least, and he could not feel his limbs. Blearily, he struck open his eyes, which felt now weary and clouded.

He saw above him Elrond, eyes shut, chanting in some ancient verse of Quenya or perhaps an elder tongue quite unknown to him. Glorfindel was to his right, the marks of sorrows unending cut upon his yet youthful face. To his left was Glóin, his friend of old, and he had clutched his arm, though he felt it not.

Weakly, he raised his voice. _“Elrond, cease.”_

The Halfelven’s eyes opened to stare directly at him, and Bilbo attempted a chuckle, though it came as a weary grimace.

“Should I not tether you to Arda thus… _you shall pass.”_

“Pray tell, then- what happened?”

The sorrow on the face of all present was palpable, and it was Glorfindel who spoke.

“Your heart ceased its rhythm, and you drew no breath. Had not Elrond surged forth employed what enchantment is left to us, you would not be here. Naught ails you, Bilbo- naught but a weariness akin to that of the Eldar. This world is itself forged of a song of sorrow- and yours comes forth now faintly.”

“Ah.” said Bilbo, as if uncaring. “I am to… fade, then, as would an elf?”

All three nodded solemnly, Glóin’s eyes watering rivulets down his cheeks.

“Then if I am correct in my understanding- to further prevent it would be spurious. I have done my part, I believe…”

 _‘Stay with us, lad’_ was the phrase that rang in Glóin’s mind, yet he would not say it, for his friend looked not for such hindrance.

“Aye- a thousand times over, my dear friend. May all the Khazâd remember your name, and as we carve the names of our fathers unto the living rock, so has your name been engraved into the very bones of the world until the end of time.”

The Old Hobbit shut his eyes and opened them again, finding somehow the strength to tighten his grip around Glóin’s own hand.

“And so comes the tale upon the end of its circle. Wise you may be, Elrond, but hear now my last- for it shall not end like I have. Not as this.”

“Of that we can presume little…”

“Presume? _Bah._ I _know_ it, Elrond, I know that the history we have sought to weave shall draw itself a far more fitting conclusion. Tis but that I… shan’t be around to witness it, I think. Well then, a journey ends, another begins- yet you shan’t be weighed by one last favour, will you?”

“Now? By Mahal…”

“…And by Elbereth, we shall remember it and see it done, my dear Bilbo.” said Glóin and Elrond at once.

“Well, then.” Here he coughed a little, and Elrond muttered a few words. His coughs ceased, but his voice came more weakly.

“When you… find Frodo- _and you WILL_ _find him, for I know it-_ tell him of how proud I have been. My precocious little lad- no doubt he’ll think it’s due to some mistake… of his… but his old Bilbo has always been proud of him, and still is proud of him. And… wherever I may go- I shall always watch him. That is my vow. I shall live on, if only in his eyes. It will be as if I never left.”

Doubt though he did that he would ever lay eyes on Frodo Baggins of the Shire, Elrond nodded once, then twice. It was time, then.

The last expression of Bilbo Baggins upon Arda was that of a placid smile, one of unshakable faith and an unyielding strength, until his breaths ceased and life left him, for he had surrdendered it willingly unto Ilúvatar. From the circles of the world he would leave- but remembered forever would he be in the minds of those whose fate he had forever changed.

 _“Mahal keep you, dear lad, Mahal keep you…”_ said Glóin, tears now flowing forth to wet his beard, as he thought of the company of Thorin Oakenshield, and of times long lost.

* * *

** GLOSSARY **

**_Mae Govannen, Boromir Denethorion, arothir en Gondor_** **(Sindarin):** Well met, Boromir son of Denethor, noble lord of Gondor.

 **“Ai, sael brannon. Elen síla lumenn’ omentielvo”:** Hail, wise Lord. The stars shine on our meeting.

 **Lomilrabulûr (Neo-Khuzdul):** Night-bringer (This is, I believe, akin to how the Dwarves would name the One Ring).

 **The Orocarni** are the Red Mountains, a range that dominates the east of Middle-earth, rising beyond Mordor. Four of the Seven Dwarf-clans live there.

 **Mahal** is the Dwarves’ name for Aulë, who created them.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Apologies for the wait, as this was indeed an exceptionally poignant chapter. Rather a pain for me to put to words as well- for one does not simply kill off Bilbo Baggins. There exists something about him that renders his character more immortal than a Noldorin lord or even an Ainu- and yet there was little else for it. Seeing what store Hobbits put in family, and how Bilbo loved Frodo beyond anything, there was little other choice. Had I not advanced as I have, I feel I would not be crafting a believable story.
> 
> Farewell until the next one. It shall be interesting, if I may say so.


End file.
